Rebuilding the Sun
by starry19
Summary: "She was more than willing to pick up the pieces, if he was ever willing to let himself shatter. But he would hold on, she knew, until he couldn't hide the cracks any longer." Jane/Lisbon
1. Chapter 1

**AN**: Oh, dear. Is this another multichapter? Yes, it appears to be another multichapter. I'm hesitant to tell you how many chapters this is slated for; my stories tend to randomly take on lives of their own and morph into something I can't even recognize as the original idea by the end. Seriously, about 50% of what happened in Burnt Offerings I made up as I went along. It was ridiculous.

I was going to wait and post this until after "Red Barn" aired, but I have no self-control.

Ah, well. Away we go!

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Chapter One**

It was the waiting that was the hardest.

Teresa Lisbon wasn't a particularly patient person at the best of times, and this specific moment certainly didn't qualify as _the best of times._

She was leaning distractedly against her SUV, eyes trained on the abandoned building in front of them, currently illuminated by the harsh glare of halogen lights, the glossy yellow of crime scene tape adding a pop of color against the backdrop of grays and blacks.

From her vantage point, she could see the mass of bodies that made up the local media starting to congregate. As yet, she hadn't spotted any national trucks, but it was only a matter of time. She wondered what the headlines would read tomorrow.

_Notorious Serial Killer Gunned Down by CBI Agents_

Maybe someone would get creative.

_A Red Letter Day for California Law Enforcement_

Of course, there would always be the English majors going for poignancy.

_Reign of Terror Finally Ends: Red John Falls_

Bertram was going to try to get her to do an interview. She knew that without even having talked to the man tonight. He was probably dancing around his office with something approaching glee. They had managed to make the news again, but this time, it would give him laurels to rest on.

A solitary figure walked out of a hidden side-entrance to the building. Even from her current distance, she knew it was Jane.

Silently, she let out a relieved breath. Part of her had been worried that he would refuse to leave the scene, refuse to stop staring at the bloodied remains of the man whose death had been the sole focus of Jane's existence for the past decade.

She would give ten years of her life to know what he was thinking at this moment. _If_ he was even thinking anymore, she amended. It was a wonder that she herself was.

It had been the most exhaustive day she could remember having.

Early that morning, they had gotten a call from the Sac PD, informing them that another Red John victim had been discovered. In typical fashion, Jane had taken over the scene, his responses to her anxious questions short and concise.

Like every other case, there were no fingerprints at the scene, and nothing that could be used for DNA. By all accounts, a dead end.

But then, Rigsby had brought them the unexpected news that the victim's neighbor across the street had been a peeping tom, so to speak. While it was normally a reprehensible thing, in this case, it was a God-send.

Instead of relying on ladders and binoculars, this particular pervert had a camera that he employed regularly.

Including last night.

The team had started the footage, both excited and repulsed by the prospect of what they were about to see on the video.

Like she'd expected, they never saw Red John's face. He was no more than a dark blur against the even deeper black of the Sacramento night. She thought she saw his shadow cross in front of the victim's bedroom window, but perhaps it was her imagination.

There was a period where nothing happened on the recording. Looking mildly nauseous, Grace sped the playback up.

The killer exited the house the same way he entered - the front door. It was brazen, arrogant. Beside her, she felt Jane's eyes hungrily follow the man's every move. She wanted to tell him to take a step back, but she knew it would do no good.

Though there were no clearer images of Red John, they did manage to get a look at his car.

More importantly, they saw the first two letters of his license plate.

For the next several hours, it seemed as though everyone in the CBI was frantically running background checks on everyone in the state that owned late model Jeeps with the correct plates.

Occasionally, someone would point out a particularly promising candidate, listing priors and family histories. Jane, listening raptly, a pile of his own research on his lap, would shake his head from time to time, dismissing a potential killer for one reason or another.

Until the name of Blake Williamson appeared.

Lisbon knew enough of the Red John case that she'd caught the connection without Jane's prompting.

He held her eyes as Grace rattled off the information she had.

"It's him," Jane said, almost before the other agent had finished talking.

The rest of the team blinked. From the corner of her eye, Lisbon saw the awareness take over Cho's posture as he, too, realized why Jane was certain.

"William Blake," he said. "Of course."

Within an hour, they'd been on the road, warrants in hand. Silently, she prayed that there would be enough evidence to get the man arrested. She knew very well that if they allowed Red John to leave their custody, he would disappear, and she had no desire to devote another decade of her life to his games.

Jane was ominously silent in the passenger seat, and she tried to put herself in his shoes. As far as she knew, this was the only time they had ever truly had a Red John suspect in their sights. There had been other names that had been toyed with, but there was never anything that even touched circumstantial proof.

Williamson was nowhere to be found when they arrived. The warrants, however, were still good, so with a nod at Rigsby, the door was kicked in. Quickly, the team declared the building good, and Jane stepped in behind them.

For herself, Lisbon was quietly surprised at how normal the place seemed. Of course, she wasn't entirely sure what she'd been expecting in a serial killer's home. Heads in the freezer, perhaps, or small animals staked in the yard.

Instead, she found microsuede furniture, some brightly blooming geraniums, and a large amount of organic produce.

It seemed terrifyingly innocuous.

"Jane?" she asked once, finding him in what was clearly the master bedroom, done in shades of light blue and gold.

He was standing in front of a well-organized closet, arms crossed, looking so deep in thought that she wondered for a moment if he'd even heard her. Then he cleared his throat.

"Someone hired a pretty good decorator, didn't they?" he asked flippantly.

She didn't reply, and he turned to face her.

"Don't fret, Lisbon. Your evidence is here somewhere." His eyes slid past her to the bedside table. "He's just smart enough to not leave it in plain view."

He pulled the small drawer on the nightstand open. Inside was a thin book of poetry. Jane lifted it out. "The complete works of William Blake," he told her.

"Which proves nothing, other than he likes poetry," she replied.

With sure fingers, Jane flipped through the book, carefully turning the worn pages. He stopped abruptly, blinked once, then turned the anthology towards her.

The book was open to the page entitled "The Tyger." But what was noteworthy was the small, carefully drawn red smiley face beneath the heading.

"Good enough?" Jane asked, eyebrows raised.

"It's a start," she said, relief running through her voice. "Let's go arrest this son of a bitch."

"You do that," he responded.

Abruptly, she faced him. "Don't you dare," she warned him. "So help me God, Jane, I don't want to have to worry about you running after Williamson in some sort of revenge-fueled rage."

He gaze was even, but she saw his well-concealed emotions trying to come to the surface. "He's _mine_, Lisbon," he said quietly.

Her anger bubbled up. "Jane, the last time we were in this situation, it ended with you lying to a jury after shooting a man in the middle of a food court. I'm not going down that road again."

"Lisbon, surely you knew this was coming," he said, now looking almost like he couldn't believe her.

"If I have to, I'll put you in handcuffs," she told him, steel in her tone. "We're doing this the right way."

However, their argument ended the second they heard Cho yelling from the living room. "Black Jeep is going by, boss. I think it's our guy."

Running now, they made it to the yard just in time to see the vehicle speeding out of sight around the corner.

They had chased the SUV in the waning light of late afternoon, losing it eventually to a passing train. In frustration, Jane slammed his hands on the dashboard.

For the next hour, they drove the streets, looking for something, anything that would give them hope. On a whim, she took a left where Jane instructed her to go right.

In another three blocks, they passed a run-down garage, covered partially in tin and graffiti, one of its metal doors seemingly unable to shut properly.

The hair on the back of her neck rose, and she slowed their vehicle. Jane was out almost before she'd come to a complete stop, yanking the door fully open. Inside, just a shade too large to fit fully, the Jeep sat. The hood was still warm.

In another four minutes, a small army of agents and local police were on the scene, canvassing and looking for a lead.

Within twenty minutes, they had it. Looking back later, she would never remember what it was. But it took them to a large house with peeling paint and boarded windows.

Surrounded now by law enforcement, she hoped Jane would be forced to toss aside his ridiculous plan of being the one who single-handedly brought down Red John. It was stupid, thoughtless, and would lead to his death, she was sure.

When they saw a shadow move in the house, it was showtime.

Leaving Jane safely outside, the task force had moved in. Once, she caught his eyes as they crossed the street. He was anxious, restless, almost vibrating with suppressed emotion.

For just a second, he held her stare. "Be careful," he mouthed.

She nodded, frowning.

The next ten minutes were a blur of silent movement, pounding heartbeats, and abruptly, gun shots. She would never be able to recall exactly the sequence of precise moments that led to her standing over the crumpled body of what used to be California's most notorious serial killer, but that's where she suddenly found herself.

She had no idea how long she stood in silence, but she slowly became aware of Jane's presence at her back. He was utterly silent, but still, she knew he was there. It was some sort of strange sixth sense.

When she finally turned around, Jane hardly moved. His eyes flicked over her once, perhaps assuring himself that she was indeed alright, then returned to their primary point of focus.

His posture, the set of his face, screamed out his need for solitude in this moment, and she reluctantly left him. She could only hope that she wouldn't have to drag him out later.

The shelter of the SUV had seemed a little like a haven. Cho had taken care of most of the required details - statements to police and the like. He spoke with enough authority that no one questioned him, so she was free to try and disappear into the shadows.

For a few minutes, she had sat behind the wheel, fingers flexing compulsively around the supple rubber.

It was over.

At least once a day for the past nine years, she'd looked across the room at Jane and wondered if they would ever solve the case. Regardless of her encouraging words to him when his burden started to be overwhelming, she knew realistically that many serial killers were never caught. And this one was smarter than most.

However, here they were. Well, here _she_ was. Jane was still standing on hard concrete, peering blankly down at a dead man.

Soon after that thought occurred, the interior of the Traverse became stifling. Hurriedly, she wrenched open the door, the cool night air grounding her, calming her severely frayed nerves.

And there she waited, not knowing what to expect, both from herself and from Jane.

When she saw him starting making his way towards her, her heart gave a betraying flutter. As his face came into view, she felt her breathing start to accelerate.

She would be lying if she said this scenario hadn't crossed her mind. The day that Patrick Jane, so haunted, so emotionally damaged, was free from his shackles and could restitch the unravelling threads of his existence. In her dreams, he had held on to life with one hand, and her with the other.

It was very clear in her mind's eye. He would wrap her in his arms, tell her he loved her and didn't want to live without her, and they would walk off into the sunset.

Only now there was no sun.

And Jane certainly didn't look like he was in the mood for romantic declarations.

He looked...almost absent, she decided, the warmth and humor gone from those green eyes she loved so much.

Perhaps he was in shock, she thought, and she instinctively reached for him. He didn't avoid her hand, but neither did he react to her touch.

His skin was cold, and she quickly removed her fingers from his cheek.

"Jane," she began, haltingly. "Are you okay?"

He nodded, focusing on her face. But there was nothing behind his eyes. "Just fine, Lisbon," he said, and his voice was surprisingly even. He took a deep breath, the first sign of any sort of emotion she'd seen. "I think I'm going to go for a walk," he added. "I have a lot to think about."

Frantically, she looked around. "_Here_?" she demanded. "Do you know what sort of neighborhood we're in?"

But he was already walking away again.

"Jane!" she called after him. "You're going to get mugged!"

He gave a wry chuckle, and there was absolutely no humor in it. "What could they possibly take from me that I haven't already lost, Lisbon?"

Clearly, it was a rhetorical question, and clearly, he didn't want her to answer.

Her first impulse was to go after him, but it would have been a futile exercise. Instead, she stared at his retreating back, wondering how something she'd looked forward to for almost a decade had gone so completely backward.

There were no lingering touches, no weighty smiles telling her that he had just been waiting for this moment to officially make her his, no warm brush of his lips against her skin.

She had been fully prepared to offer whatever comfort she was able - open arms, a stiff drink or six, a night on her couch, all three.

But there was just nothing.

She sucked in a deep breath, bracing herself. There was no point in wallowing in abruptly shattered fantasies.

Jane just needed some time to cope, that was it. After all, he had been living for revenge for almost a quarter of his life. Maybe he needed to wrap his mind around tonight's events.

She would see him tomorrow, anyway. It would certainly make her feel better if he was under her watchful eye. The idea of him wandering off tonight alone was deeply unsettling, but there wasn't a thing she could do about it.

Perhaps she should have done a better job of making sure he understood that she was there for him, whatever he needed.

Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow would be better. It became her mantra: _tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow._ Tomorrow she would start putting Patrick Jane back together.

She had no way of knowing then how very wrong she was.

**AN: Oh, come on. You know you want to review this. Pretty please?**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN**: Alright, that was a little cliffhanger-y, but you guys know I can do worse, right?

Remember what I said about stories taking on lives of their own? This is only chapter two, and I've already totally changed what this was going to do.

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Chapter Two**

The sky was just starting to streak pink when Jane pulled into the driveway in Malibu. He had only vague memories of the trip there, and he was dimly surprised he'd managed to arrive without killing anyone. Or perhaps he had, and just hadn't noticed.

There was something very wrong with his mind. He kept having to bully it into doing completely normal things, like breathing. If he didn't consciously order his lungs to inflate, they wouldn't. It felt like his brain was wrapped in a thick haze of fog, making him sluggish and stupid.

Avoiding the house, he wandered down to the shore, flopping down on the beach perilously close to the rolling waves. The sand was cold still, gritty, and he knew clinically that he would have to shower multiple times to get it all out of his hair.

Eventually, he felt water start to lap at his shoes, but he couldn't be bothered to move. There didn't seem to be any point, really. No point in anything, for that matter.

So he lay still as the tide rocked up gently over his ankles, his legs. The sun was fully up when his chest was finally soaked. He closed his eyes.

A wave crashed over his face, water streaming into his mouth and nose, and suddenly he found he _did_ care. Rolling to safety, he sputtered, choking and coughing until he could breathe properly again.

His airways burned from the salt, but it was a very_ alive_ feeling, which was what he'd been missing. On his knees, no less, he came back to himself. Someone would probably appreciate the irony in that, though he couldn't think of just _who_ at the moment. He cared enough not to die here - that was something.

Shakily, he stood, utterly soaked. The walk to the house seemed to take twice as much effort as it normally did, but he soldiered on, tugging of his sodden jacket, vest, and shirt as he went. Halfway there, he paused to toe of his shoes and socks, and then took a moment to appreciate the now-warm sand as it cushioned his bare feet.

The kitchen was as bare and empty as it ever was. Dumping his wet clothes on the tile floor, he filled the stainless steel kettle up and set it to warming. There was a single container of tea in the cupboard, with one lonely cup and saucer.

Sitting at the table, he realized his phone was in the car. He should call someone, reassure them that he hadn't wandered off to Vegas or to the great unknown again.

Well, in all honesty, he should call Lisbon. She would be worried about him, very much so. But he found he couldn't deal with talking to her at the moment. Hearing the concern in her voice, knowing how her face would look...it wasn't something he wanted to face.

Instead, after retrieving his cell, he called Cho. He needed the other man's brusque, stoic demeanor at the moment.

"Jane," came the concise greeting.

"Hey," he said, voice sounding raspy, as though he hadn't used it in a great while. He supposed that was true.

"What's up?" The question seemed casual enough, but Jane could hear the undertones. Cho was a detective first, always.

"I'm taking a few days off," he said, aiming for nonchalance, hoping he wouldn't be asked for reasons. "Could you tell Lisbon for me?"

There was a pause. "Is she not answering her phone?"

Jane sighed. This was exactly what he wanted to avoid. "I have no idea, Cho. I didn't call her."

Another moment of silence. Then, "Okay. I'll let her know."

He let out another breath. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

The conversation ended there, neither man giving a proper goodbye. He absently tossed the phone onto the countertop.

The kettle whistled, requiring his attention.

In complete silence, he leaned his hips against the counter, sipping his tea. Occasionally, he thought about buying a card table and folding chairs, just for somewhere to sit, but he'd cleaned this place out once, and it was going to stay empty.

He hardly remembered what had led him to make that particular decision - it had just seemed very important at the time. It was impossible to sit in this house, surrounded by physical mementos of what had been taken from him, without wanting to take the pain away with burning alcohol, or the blessed numbness of pills, or even the abrupt finality of cold steel pressed against his temple.

So everything had gone, save Charlotte's tricycle. It was the last living memory he had of her. Before he'd gone to Los Angeles that night, he'd had to chase his precocious daughter down to wrangle a goodbye kiss from her. She'd run over his toes, intent on testing the limits of speed and physics within the living room.

He waited for the familiar prickling at the back of his eyes, but it never came. It seemed he had even lost his ability to cry, to mourn his family.

His phone vibrated. Still detached, he flipped it open. Lisbon's message appeared on the screen.

_Are you okay?_

Of course she was concerned. He was honestly mildly surprised she hadn't ordered Grace to track his phone. It wouldn't have been a total shock to find her knocking on his door, intent on wrapping him in her saintly wings.

And up until yesterday, he would have been counting on it.

He wasn't an idiot - he knew very well he'd come to depend on her, to care about her in a way he'd sworn he never would again. In all honestly, he could admit, at least to himself, that he was in love with her.

It wasn't some beautiful, glorious thing, however. What he felt for her had a desperate sort of edge to it, like she was the only thing holding him on the earth. It was raw, unpolished, and he had done his damnedest to hide it.

The only time he allowed his hungry gaze to touch her was when he was sure she wasn't looking. The rest of the hours he spent with her, he was careful to keep his expression within the bounds of friendship. Mostly.

He tapped out a message.

_I'm fine. I'll be back in a few days._

Her reply came less than a minute later.

_Promise you'll let me know if you need anything._

It wasn't a question, and he knew what she was really saying. If he needed _her._

How typically Lisbon. Deep underneath the numbness that been enveloping him, his heart gave a slight tug.

_I promise,_ he responded, resisting the unexpected impulse to tell her he missed her. After all, he wasn't sure he did yet.

Tea finished, he dumped the cup and saucer into the sink and gathered his wet clothes, wondering absently if the dryer in the laundry room still worked. He hadn't seen the point in removing the appliances when he'd been purging the house.

For sheer lack of anything else to do while his suit dryed, he flopped gracelessly on the mattress in the master bedroom.

It had been years since he'd consciously thought of it as _their room_. In fact, he avoided the term. There was far too much attached to it that he didn't want to dredge up.

His mind was quiet as he rested, arms tucked behind his head. He was almost positive that something was supposed to be happening to him, some cathartic crying perhaps, or an internal transformation from caterpillar to undamaged butterfly, full of color and life and light enough to fly.

Instead, to continue the metaphor, he seemed stuck in the cocoon.

Strange, though - there were times before yesterday that he'd felt as though he was breaking out even without the much sought after catalyst of Red John's demise. He'd once told a victim's child to remember the feeling attached to grief, that she would never feel that alive again.

He lived that every day. What people saw as his natural zest for life were overwrought emotions manifesting themselves the only way he would let them. It was love the world around him or spend his days huddled in a corner.

And he'd already tried that once.

From deep within the house, the dryer buzzed, signalling that it had finished ruining something that was clearly labelled Dry Clean Only.

But it seemed like too much effort to push himself upright again.

So he stayed put, ignoring the occasional vibration of his phone, ignoring the way the sun crept through the room, thowing slanted beams of light across the smiling face on the wall, narrower as the day went on, until he was cloaked in darkness once more.

The night made him feel better. Well, perhaps that wasn't the right word. He felt...more acceptable. Even in his current state of mind, it felt strange to be so utterly dead inside on such a beautiful day.

He dressed, then wandered out to the beach again, eyeing the black, rolling waves contemplatively.

It would be easy, he abruptly thought, just to wander out into the water.

He brushed the idea aside. If he was going to end his life, he would have done it a decade ago. When he really thought about it, he was somewhat surprised that he hadn't. He still couldn't put a finger on what had kept him clinging to life, though he suspected it was because he kept seeing Angela's face. She would've been horrified.

But the depth of the ocean was still soothing, and he sat in the sand again. Maybe he would sleep out here tonight, if he ever slept again.

He didn't feel tired. He didn't feel hungry. He didn't feel lonely.

With a sigh that was meant to sound forlorn, but instead, was just another breath, he stretched his legs out and waited for the tide to come in again.

**XxXxXxXxXxX**

Three days later, he was back in Sacramento. He'd left very late the night before, deciding staying in the house longer was going to serve no purpose.

In fact, he wasn't sure why he'd gone there in the first place. It just seemed like it was what he _should_ have done. But whatever he'd thought he'd find there was long gone, if it had ever been there to start with.

His hotel room was exactly as he'd left it, and he decided he appreciated the normalcy of that.

The hot shower reminded him that he had done little else recently than lay on the beach. Once, he'd given into the nagging voice that sounded suspiciously like Lisbon and ordered dinner. The deliveryman seemed a little scared to be standing on the front step of the house where such violent acts had been committed. Of course, his house was probably legendary around Malibu after all of this time. With an odd flash of amusement, Jane had tipped the man lavishly.

His food had tasted like cardboard, but he didn't think it was the restaurant's fault.

The temperature gauge in the shower was all the way on _hot_, and the steam billowed up, wrapped around him. It was hard to breathe, the moisture in the air pressing down on his lungs.

He washed his hair three times before he was convinced there was no more sand in it.

Wiping the fog from the bathroom mirror, he shaved for the first time in days. When he was done, he wasn't sure if he felt more human, but he definitely felt cleaner.

Even with the time he'd taken in the shower, he still beat the rest of the team to work. He set himself up in Lisbon's office, wanting to take away her worry as soon as he could.

She was the only good and decent thing he had, and he knew he should feel sorry for what he had no doubt put her through the past several days.

When the door opened, her breath caught. She stared at him for a few moments, while he noted the dark circles under her eyes and that she still looked utterly lovely. Then her face split into a wide grin that he returned, making sure it reached his eyes.

He stood, reading in her body language that she wanted to touch him, and wrapped her in a hug. Her slender arms went around him immediately, and he lowered his head until he was nearly resting his chin on her shoulder.

She smelled like cinnamon and warmth and Lisbon. It was a supremely comforting scent, and he breathed it in, her dark hair brushing his nose, surprised by the sudden feeling.

For a instant, just a brief flash, the haze around him vanished, and something poignant and fathomless touched his heart. His fingers tightened instinctively on her back, but then it was gone, and he stepped back.

Still smiling, she took in his appearance. "Welcome back," she said, and it sounded like _welcome home._ "It was pretty boring around here without you, I have to admit."

She wasn't even bothering to hide the delight and relief in her eyes.

"I guess I assumed you relished the peace and quiet," he replied, because that's what was expected of him. Lisbon wanted him to be alright, and so he would be. "Maybe it's time you admit that I make your life much more exciting and worthwhile."

Lightly, she swatted his arm. Her happiness was almost a tangible thing. He wished he could bottle it and save it for himself.

He spent the rest of the day on her couch, trying to bask in the glow of her sunny presence. Sometimes, if he concentrated hard enough, some of her warmth would touch him, but it was like holding onto a fragment of a dream -it slipped away eventually.

For her part, Lisbon kept close to him. Even when she left her office, he could still feel her eyes flick back to him every few seconds.

He understood that she had been nothing but worried about him, that she was scared he wasn't going to come back to them, to her.

She had been right to worry.

Physically, he was as present as he'd ever been. Emotionally, mentally, he wasn't sure where the hell he was.

Maybe if he just held on, and jumped back into the routine of things, his mind would straighten itself out, and he could get on with the plans he'd tentatively made.

If things had gone according to schedule, he still would have taken the last few days off, but only because nothing in the world was going to drag him out of Lisbon's bed. He had been quite positive that he would have been able to convince her to keep him company, too.

It was something he'd thought about many times. How soft her lips would be, how it would feel to have her hands tangled in his hair, the lengths he would be willing to go to in order to get her to cry out his name.

And he knew that it was what she had been expecting as well.

But that was all lost now. Destroyed in a spattering of gunfire and darkness.

Clinically, away from the coldness of his heart, he knew he wanted it back, knew that he needed to work on getting it back.

He just didn't know _how._

**AN: Well, we've set up the ground work. Things start getting interesting next chapter.**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN**: I've been blown away by people's responses to this! You guys rock! And if you don't have an account here, get one (!) so I can thank you for your review!

This was going to be up yesterday, but I tried to write while watching _Archer_ and I think I had some difficulty packing emotional gravity into a story during _that._

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Chapter Three**

It didn't take Lisbon long to realize that the Jane that lounged on her couch during the day wasn't _her_ Jane.

Oh, he tried to fool her, tried to fool them all. He might even have the rest of the team convinced. She, however, certainly wasn't.

He said all the right things, made all the right motions, but there was a terrifying blankness in his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

Of course, she was _always_ looking.

Sometimes, she tried to work up her courage to call him out on it, to ask him what was wrong. She never did though.

Patrick Jane was and always had been an extraordinarily private person. She suspected that if she raised the subject, he would brush her off with his usual glibness.

At least he came back, she constantly reminded herself.

That had been her greatest fear - now that his quest was over, he would walk out of her life as abruptly as he'd walked in. He was certainly capable of maintaining his silence and distance, as his stint in Vegas had proven.

His brief text messages to her had relaxed her slightly, as had his phone call to Cho. She refused to admit that the last item stung; she would've thought the call would have come to her.

Still, she'd nearly wept in relief when she opened her office door three days ago to see him sitting there, looking as composed as he ever did.

When he'd pulled her into his arms, she'd hugged him back in a way she had never done before. He was warm and solid and smelled like expensive cologne and Jane.

For just a moment, his hands had tightened against her, and she'd allowed herself to believe that he'd returned not just to the CBI, but to _her_. That she was going to get the opportunity to run her fingers through those golden curls of his, be able to comfort him when he woke from the nightmares he would probably always have, to playfully smack him with a spatula when he made snide comments about her cooking.

Then he'd stepped away, and she saw his mask slip into place.

She was used to Jane keeping his thoughts and emotions close to his heart. This was different, though. It was almost as if he didn't _have_ any, like the essential spark of his soul had been extinguished.

It was the fourth day of his return, eight days since Red John had ceased burdening the earth with his demonic presence.

Jane had wandered off to his attic, cup of tea in hand, early in the morning. To her knowledge, he hadn't been there since before he left.

She was bent over some forms on her desk, trying valiantly to fill them out properly, but her mind kept drifting a few floors up to dwell on the man that had occupied most of her thoughts for nearly a decade now.

The worst part of the whole situation was that she had no idea how to fix it. How to fix Jane. For clearly, he was broken.

Rigsby's knock on her door broke her reverie.

"Uh, boss?" he asked, expression telling her that something strange was about to happen.

"What's up?" she replied.

He walked fully in her office, stopping just in front of her desk. "Downstairs just called. Someone claiming to be Jane's father is here."

Lisbon stared for a moment. "I'm sorry, did you say his _father_?"

Rigsby looked grim. "Do you think it's a hoax?"

She let out a breath, thinking. "I have no idea." She thought for another second. "Go get him," she finally said. "Bring him in here. _Don't_ tell Jane," she added. "Not yet, anyway."

There was no point in getting him involved unless they knew for certain, she told herself. Secretly, she hoped it was a prank. She could turn some of her worry into aggression and arrest a sick son of a bitch, and Jane wouldn't have to deal with the emotional upheaval.

Less than five minutes later, her office door opened again, Rigsby ushering in a man in his mid-sixties.

One look at his face and she felt her heart sink. Apparently, striking green eyes were a family trait.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, extending her hand out of habit. "Mr. Jane," she said, and she felt Rigsby's gaze on her. "I'm Agent Lisbon. What can I do for you today?"

Alex Jane looked steadily at her, expression neutral. "I'd like to talk to my son," he said, as though it should have been obvious. "He does work here, doesn't he?" His face went from neutral to slightly contemptuous. "As a consultant, I believe?"

Her first instinct was to shield Jane, to kick this man out of her office, and instruct Rigsby to lie about the whole thing. But protecting Jane from his own father wasn't her job, and she was almost sure he wouldn't thank her for it.

"Yes, he works here," she said, striving for nonchalance. "What would you like to speak with him about?"

Alex's gaze held a trace of annoyance. "I'm not sure that's any of your business, young lady."

He was right, yes, but that didn't make it better. There was nothing else for it. "Just a moment," she finally replied, tone civil, if not particularly friendly.

"Stay here," she murmured to Rigsby as she left her office, heading for the stairs.

She could simply call Jane and tell him to come downstairs, but she this was certainly not something she was going to just spring on him without giving him a chance to prepare himself.

As she made her way up the concrete steps, she wondered what the hell she was going to say.

Jane way laying on his make-shift bed, arms crossed over his chest. He didn't turn towards her until she was directly beside him.

"Lisbon," he said. He took in her face. "I'm not sure what that look means, but I'm guessing it's something unpleasant."

She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a second, and then simply blurted it out. "Your father's in my office right now."

His eyes flashed as he sat up, and her heart leapt when she saw the life in them. For now, at least, he was here.

"My father?" he repeated. "You're sure?"

She shrugged helplessly. "He has your eyes."

Furrowing his brows, he eased off the bed, hands absently smoothing his vest. "What does he say he wants?"

"To talk you you," she answered.

Still frowning, he gestured for her to precede him out the door. "How ostentatious," she heard him mutter, and then felt his fingers press against her lower back. It was typical Jane gesture, but one she enjoyed, nonetheless. She just wished she could see his eyes, see if he was still fully present.

They were silent the rest of the way. Jane's quick double take when he peered in her office window was enough to confirm that it was, in fact, his father who was currently waiting for them.

Jane opened the door for her, and there was something harsh in his body language. She hesitated. "I'll give you guys some time alone," she said awkwardly, turning back.

To her surprise, Jane didn't budge. "I'd rather you didn't, Lisbon."

Did she think the situation was awkward before? Because now it was downright uncomfortable. "Um, alright?" She didn't mean it to come out as a question, but it did anyway.

Alex Jane looked somewhat less than pleased. "That's alright, Agent Lisbon. I'd like to talk to Patty here alone."

She peered helplessly up at Jane, but his gaze was locked on his father. "Stay, Lisbon. I'm sure whatever my dear old dad is here for, it's nothing good. You'll wind up being involved eventually, I'd bet, and it would probably make your life easier if you were in on this from the start."

The tone of his voice surprised her. It was venom wrapped in ice.

Immediately, she realized she wanted no part of this. But she did as Jane asked, crossing the threshold and sitting in her chair. There was something dangerous in the air.

Jane took his regular perch on her couch, and Alex turned his chair to face his son.

Though there were similarities in the lines of their profiles, it was obvious that Jane favored his mother in the looks department. Well, except for the eyes, she amended.

"What do you want?" Jane asked, legs crossed in a deceptively negligent manner.

Alex adopted a surprised expression. "That's all the greeting I get after, what, sixteen years?"

"It's more than you deserve," his son answered. "Now, again, why are you here?"

Lisbon's fingers clenched in her lap. She felt like a voyeur.

The older man cleared his throat. "I saw what happened on the news," he said, "and I figured I would come congratulate you."

Jane snorted in derision. "Where were you the last time Red John's death was all over the news? I was actually the one who pulled the trigger then."

Alex swallowed. "I wasn't around then," he replied. "But I'm here now."

"Spare me the concerned father routine," Jane snapped, abruptly losing patience. "You and I both know where we stand. Tell me what you want."

There was another pause, and Lisbon swore she saw some starch go out of the man's spine. Eventually he spoke again.

"Angela's parents want to talk to you," he said, sounding almost apologetic.

Jane flinched, but recovered quickly. "Is there a reason they couldn't call? Actually, is there a reason _you_ couldn't have just called, too?"

Alex leaned forward. "They didn't think you'd answer. And maybe I just wanted to see you."

"Somehow I doubt that," Jane said. "If you don't have anything else to tell me, I'll get Cho to see you out."

He stood then, not looking at her or his father as he left the room.

"He calls you Lisbon," came Alex's voice. "Which means you're not sleeping together. Or you're not anymore, at least. But he does care about you a great deal, and he trusts you. Interesting."

She whipped her head around. "Mr. Jane," she said, voice a little sharp. "I've been working with your son for nine years now. Your son, who, forgive me, is much better at seeing through people than you are, I'm willing to bet. You're going to have to try harder to surprise me."

For the first time, Jane's father looked at her with a glimmer of respect. "Is that a fact, Agent Lisbon? If it is, I'm glad to hear it."

Cho appeared in her office doorway.

Alex mugged a face. "I guess that's my clue to leave before someone arrests me," he said. As he stood, she noticed a slight twitch in his cheek, like he was in a moment of pain. "I'm guessing you've been taking care of my son for a great many years," he continued, making his way out of the room. "I hope you keep doing it."

She frowned at his back, deeply disquieted by this visit. Of all the things that were going on right now, they certainly didn't need Jane's past to rear its not-so-wonderful head.

Her phone buzzed, and she picked it up automatically, still lost in thought.

_Taking the rest of the day off_, Jane had written.

Her first thought was _thanks for asking_, but she pushed it aside. Obviously, he was having a rough day and she should be supportive.

_I'm here if you need to talk_, she wrote. _You know that, right?_

As though he would ever unburden himself to her, especially in the state of mind he'd been in. Yes, she knew it was jarring to him, to be rid of his life's quest. But it didn't help the frustration she sometimes felt. He was a puzzle that she could never quite figure out; there always seemed to be missing pieces stuck under couch cushions or under a bookshelf.

_I know_, came his reply a few minutes later.

She sat back down at her desk, but it would be a long time before she stopped staring at her closed door.

**XxXxXxXxXxX**

Much later that night, she rambled around her kitchen, looking for her corkscrew. Cho had given her a bottle of wine for Christmas, months ago, and she'd never gotten to it.

After the emotional nightmare she'd witnessed earlier in the day, she felt like tonight was a good night to have a glass or two. Or three.

She came from a mildly dysfunctional family herself, but the Janes belonged on Jerry Springer.

The corkscrew was hidden beneath the oven mitts that only got used when she made frozen pizza. She was just twisting it into the bottle when there was a loud, purposeful knock on her door.

She glanced at the clock as she crossed the floor. Definitely too late for normal social calls. She was happy she had sweatpants on under her usual oversized jersey. After a quick look through the peep hole, she hurriedly unchained the door and swung it wide.

Jane stood on her doorstep, jacket draped over his arm, sleeves rolled up.

His eyes were bright, present, and even a little amused.

He was also fantastically drunk.

That was glaringly apparent.

"Hey, Lisbon," he said, words a touch slurred. He grinned widely at her, and despite her surprise, she was glad to see that it was genuine.

Even if it was alcohol induced.

"Jane," she said, taking a step back and motioning him inside.

As soon as the door was shut, he pulled her into his arms.

Carefully, she rested her hands on his back, wondering what was going on. The last time she'd seen him obliviously drunk, he'd slung an arm around her shoulders after weaving perilously to one side. Of course, when she'd had to leave him for LaRoche's interview, he'd managed to find his way back just fine. Maybe Jane was a touchy-feely drunk.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. He swayed slightly, and she tightened her grip.

"For what?" she breathed back, confused.

"Everything," he replied, chin nearly resting on her shoulder. "You don't deserve this from me."

It wasn't fair, not at all, but she was going to take advantage of the situation. It might be her only chance to learn the real truth. "Tell me what's on your mind," she prompted.

She could feel him shake his head. "Nothing," he replied. "There's absolutely nothing on my mind, Lisbon. That's the problem."

Carefully, she traced a nonsensical pattern on the satin backing of his vest. "What do you mean?"

"There's something wrong with me," he told her. "I should be somewhere having a breakdown, but I…I can't feel a thing…I just…"

He trailed off, breathing heavily now, face turned into her neck.

She thought she understood – she'd taken enough psychology classes to know that Jane was probably still in a state of shock, and more than a little depressed, as odd as it sounded. His behavior made more sense now. He simply didn't know what to do, and so he tried to act normally.

His jacket fell onto the floor with a soft _thud_, and one of his hands came up to gently run through her hair.

"I thought things would be different," she heard him whisper. "I had plans, you know."

Her heart squeezed. "I know," she told him. And in a way, she certainly had. At least, she'd hoped she did. Tears pricked her eyes, and she frantically blinked them back.

They were silent for a few minutes until an idea occurred to her. "How do you feel right now?"

"Drunk," he answered immediately, and she smiled. Then he gave the question more thought. "I feel...happy to be where I am. I don't feel like I'm stuck in the fog." His sentences were careful, like he was making an extra effort to enunciate clearly.

He rested more of his weight against her, and she widened her stance to keep him from falling.

"That's good, right?" she prodded gently.

" 'S'good," he assured her, words slurring together again. "Apparently alcohol is a terrific solution."

"Alright, Jane," she said, amused despite herself. "I think you should probably lie down." With a little effort, they navigated her small apartment until she could ease him down onto the couch. He went willingly, expression thoughtful now.

"Wonder what my father wanted," he mused, settling himself against the cushions. "Bet he had some ridiculous scheme up his sleeve. You should've arrested him."

"Is he why you've been out drinking all of the liquor in Sacramento?" Now that she said it out loud, it seemed obvious.

Which was good, because Jane didn't seem to feel like answering that question.

"Teresa," he said instead, turning the s in her name into a string of z's. His eyes were half closed. "I think you're going to have to be strong enough for the both of us for a while."

Impulsively, she brushed his tumbling hair from his forehead. "I can be," she said softly.

There was no response, and she knew he was out cold.

She sighed, but it was with more affection than exasperation. She tucked the blanket around him tighter, then pressed a soft kiss on his lightly stubbled jaw.

He was a mess, a real mess.

She supposed she should feel guilty for taking advantage of the honesty that was found at the bottom of a bottle, but she simply felt relieved that she knew what the problem was.

And she'd also discovered that the old Jane was still alive, just buried under layers of fog and emptiness. Apparently all it took to bring him back was a fifth of gin.

His mind, his damnably clever mind, was protecting itself. The same thing had happened when he'd nearly drowned. That was much, much worse, she admitted. But she had brought him back from that, and she would bring him back from this.

There wasn't another option.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN**:I know I said I wasn't going to do this, but due to some time constraints, I'm going to give everyone a blanket THANK YOU for being awesome and reviewing this! I sort of figured you'd rather have another chapter, anyway!

**You guys are amazing!**

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Chapter Four**

The first thing he realized upon waking up was that he had an ache in his temples that was threatening to split his head in two.

The second thing he realized was that he wasn't where he expected to be.

As his eyes slowly focused, he recognized the cream colored furniture and sparse artwork. How the hell had he wound up at Lisbon's?

He tried to think, but that seemed like it was causing his head to throb more, so he simply threw an arm over his eyes and tried to will the pain away.

Slowly, the day started to piece itself back together.

His father had been in Lisbon's office. The words sounded outrageous when he put them together, but it had actually happened. There was something more going on with that, but he sincerely hoped he never found out what.

He hadn't spoken to his father in sixteen years. Alex had made it clear that when he and Angela had left, they were both dead to him. He had kept that promise, too. He had never met Charlotte, hadn't shown up for the funeral of his daughter-in-law and grandchild.

Jane had hoped that Charlotte's birth would've gone a long way towards healing the rifts in their family, but he had been disappointed. Angela had been his rock during that time, extraordinary woman that she'd been, telling him that they would be all the family their daughter needed.

Even though a decade and a half had passed, he found he was still bitter about it. He'd never thought he'd have to confront those feelings again, however.

But those past experiences made him very certain that his father hadn't shown up yesterday simply to check on his welfare.

Cautiously, he stretched, and was somewhat amused to note that he was still wearing his shoes.

Really, though. How had he gotten here? He hoped to God he didn't drive.

He'd left CBI in an unexpected fit of anger. With the idea of calming himself back down, he'd settled in at a bar.

He remembered ordering about four drinks before things started to blur around the edges. He focused, ignoring his head.

It was dark when he showed up here, he thought he remembered that much. He'd taken a cab, he was fairly certain, because he'd slurred Lisbon's address so badly the first time he'd had to repeat it.

Things were extraordinarily vague at this point, but he thought he recalled being in her arms. He had no idea why. And maybe it hadn't happened at all. Perhaps it was just a fantasy his alcohol-soaked brain had come up with.

He heard soft footfalls on the stairs, and he forced his eyes open in time to see a sleep-tousled Lisbon making her way towards him.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully, looking like she found the whole situation amusing. "How are you feeling?"

He cleared his throat. It hurt. "I'm sure I've felt worse," he croaked, "though I'm not sure when." Slowly, tentatively, he sat up. "Ouch," he muttered. "Lisbon, what the hell am I doing here?"

Her eyes widened. "You don't remember?"

"I have some dim recollection of pouring myself in a cab and knocking on your door," he told her. "That's all."

She studied his face, as though she was making sure he wasn't lying, and he felt the first stirring of unease. Then she blinked. "You rambled a bit and then passed out on my couch."

Her careful words, said so lightly, made him absolutely certain that he'd told her something he shouldn't. Damn it all, anyway.

He held her eyes for a moment longer, silently willing her to tell him what he'd said. Instead, she stood up.

"How do scrambled eggs sound?" she asked, walking towards the kitchen.

"If there's tea that goes along with them, they sound like heaven," he said honestly.

As she shifted things around in cupboards, he took a moment to appreciate that, other than the hangover, he felt rather normal. He wasn't having to force his expressions, the banter with Lisbon, none of it.

Moving slowly, he sat down at her tiny kitchen table, gratefully accepting the glass of water and bottle of painkillers she passed him.

In a few minutes, the teakettle whistled, and he forced himself to get up and take care of it. She still had his favorite tea on hand. It was a touching gesture, and he realized again how much he didn't deserve her devotion.

He went about his ritual for tea, finding comfort in the familiar motions. It was something he'd discovered while under Sophie Miller's care - how such a simple thing could bring him a modicum of peace. Before he'd found himself in a locked room, he'd never had much use for tea. After, however, it had become an essential method of coping.

It was odd - his whole life was divided into two parts: Before and After.

He reclaimed his previous seat, cup of tea in hand, and smiled when Lisbon slid a plate in front of him and then sat down with her own.

"Thank you," he said after the first forkful. "I owe you dinner."

"Don't worry about it," she replied.

He took another bite. "I at least owe you dinner for being a drunken pain in your ass last night."

She laughed, and he smiled at the sparkle in her eyes. "You weren't that big of a pain," she assured him. "But if you're insisting..."

"I am," he told her. "No arguing."

They finished breakfast in companionable silence, then he helped her straighten the kitchen. She gave him a light shove towards the door when they were done, handing him his suit jacket.

"I'll take you to your car," she said, reaching for her own keys. "I'm assuming you'd like to go back to your room and shower before work."

He pretended to look offended. "What are you implying, Lisbon?"

She rolled her eyes. "You smell like a bar."

He offered her a small smile. "I imagine that's putting it kindly."

She left him at the Citroen, still parked outside the watering hole he'd chosen to hide in yesterday afternoon.

As he watched her vehicle disappear, he felt the fog he'd been wrapped in start to re-emerge, and he cursed himself.

**XxXxXxXxXxX**

Work was routine for the next few days. They caught a case, which turned out to be open and shut. Sometimes it happened that way, but he certainly could have used the distraction.

He spent much of his time watching Lisbon. It had always been one of his favorite activities, but he found that it had the effect of making him feel better, at least a little.

It wasn't as though she was a restful type of person, either. She was constantly in motion, filling out forms, barking out orders, doing things that she could very easily delegate to her team but chose to do herself.

She was…certain of her place in the world. She was Teresa Lisbon, Senior Agent with the CBI, head of the Serious Crimes Unit, and she caught killers. She was a devout Catholic, was the most forgiving and loyal person he'd ever met, and she was terrifically stubborn when she wanted to be.

He wished he knew as much about himself. Some of the basics, yes, were no problem. He was Patrick Jane, CBI Consultant. He even had an identification badge that told him so. After that, however, things got more than a little murky.

Hell, he didn't even know if he was married. Technically, officially, he supposed he wasn't. The wedding ring on his hand told a different story.

He didn't know what his heart said anymore, and that was troubling. Perhaps it was a good sign – an indication that he was beginning to pick of the pieces of his life. It was a hopeful idea. Or it would be, rather, if he could be certain the guilt that was building in the back of his mind didn't drown him.

Consciously, he retreated into the haze of his mind. It was a neat trick, a way of protecting himself when his darker emotions started to stir. Cowardly, yes, but it was certainly more pleasant than feeling so emotionally overwhelmed he thought he'd break into pieces.

Lisbon came storming into her office then, clearly put out by something. Tossing a ubiquitous manila file on her desk, she dropped into her chair, looking as though she very much wanted to punch something. Or someone.

"Who's stepping on your toes?" he asked, recognizing her expression.

She met his gaze, and he saw the stormy turbulence in her own. "The damn FBI, _again_. Other than that mess with Lorelei and implicating Mancini, have you done anything to piss them off lately?"

He tried to look like he was thinking. "Not that I can recall. Are they trying to steal one of our cases, or are we trying to steal one of theirs?"

Her scowl turned back to the file on her desk. "They're trying to take the Red John case away from us. They're claiming that he has close ties to other states, causing the case to fall under federal jurisdiction."

He shrugged. "So give it to them."

Lisbon stared at him as though he'd just told her he was becoming a priest. "Just give it to them?" Her eyebrows were so furrowed they were very nearly touching. "I would have thought you of all people…" She trailed off, unsure of her next words.

Thoughtfully, he leaned forward. "Lisbon, I don't care about the case anymore. For me, it was never about the _whys _and the _wherefores. _I just wanted him dead. I couldn't give a damn about his personal life."

This was true. Whenever he'd shown an interest in Red John's personal life, it was only because he harbored some vague idea about using what he knew to track the killer down. Now that that particular task had been accomplished, he found he wanted nothing more to do with who the person Red John had been.

After a moment of startled silence, Lisbon spoke again. "Well, maybe it doesn't matter to you," she said, slowly, "but I've had this case for nine years. Without exaggerating, I can say it's been the most important thing that's happened to me as a cop. I want to know everything I can about it."

His interest was piqued, and he felt the mists receding. "Most important thing that's happened to you as a cop?" he repeated. "How's that?"

Her eyes met his, and they were softer now, a very clear green. "It brought you to me." She shrugged helplessly. "It sounds silly, but without that case, we would've never met. And as much as you piss me off sometimes, there's no denying that you've made this unit the best in CBI."

Her last sentence sounded as though she had tacked it on hastily, trying to dispel the levity of her earlier words. Deep within his numb chest, his heart ached, just for a second.

"Teresa," he said quietly, voice a touch hoarse. None of his emotions were forced in this moment. "If there was any good that came out of everything that happened, it was that I met you. I don't know where I'd be if I hadn't."

She smiled at him, and it looked like a sunrise, full of light and promise. If they had been sitting closer, he knew, she would have seriously considered reaching for his hand.

"So," he said, breaking the spell that had fallen over them, "I still owe you dinner. Does tonight work?"

She looked surprised. "I guess I'd forgotten about that. Tonight works just fine, assuming we don't get a case."

He crossed his legs, leaning back into the couch cushions. "Sounds good," he said. "And if means that much to you," he added, "fight for the damn case."

Her face took on a set expression. "I will, dammit. It's _my_ case."

He couldn't help the affectionate smile that tugged on his lips. A second later, however, he sighed as he saw Cho striding determinedly towards them.

"Looks like we're rescheduling dinner," he told her.

The office door opened. "Boss," the other agent said. "We caught a hot one. AG's office didn't have many details, they just told us to roll."

Looking slightly annoyed at their lack of information, Lisbon gave orders to move out.

Forty minutes later, they pulled up to the curb of small house located in a Sacramento suburb. To Jane's eyes, it could have been any number of crime scenes. The flashing lights, the gawking neighbors, the ever-present yellow tape.

Still, something bothered him about this particular scene. Even though he knew psychics didn't exist, in that moment he swore he had a touch of genuine foreboding.

He followed Lisbon as they passed the uniformed officers charged with standing guard over the scene, not listening to the details they offered.

Rigsby met them in the living room. "Uh, victim's in the bedroom down the hall. First door on the right." He looked deeply bothered.

Lisbon met his eyes once as they walked. Clearly, they were thinking much the same thing – that this was going to be particularly nasty.

The bedroom door was already opened.

They stood in the threshold and stared at the scene. He hardly saw the body, however.

"_Shit_," Lisbon whispered emphatically from his left.

It was changed, yes, the circle going counterclockwise, the eyes just a touch different. Similar enough to get them involved, but altered enough to let them know they weren't dealing with the same person.

And if that wasn't obvious, the message scrawled in blood beneath the smiling face would have done it as well.

_It's just beginning_, it read.

The world came into sudden, abrupt focus again. It was as if the past week had never happened. He knew it was all wrong, but that didn't matter.

Carefully, without looking at her, he touched Lisbon's fingers lightly.

"I think _shit_ just about sums it up."

**AN: **Oh, do you think Jane's all better? He's not.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN:** Sorry...I usually update every other day, but this chapter was just giving me all sorts of trouble. My brain appears to be broken and I just .write. However, I would like to thank my subconscious for coming up with the chapter's ending about 4am this morning.

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Chapter Five**

Lisbon was glad to see that Jane's original reluctance to dig through Red John's personal life had dissipated with the emergence of a copycat killer.

Well, she amended, not _really_ a copycat killer. There was no doubt that this was a separate person, someone else who meant to carry on with Red John's work. It was a very unsettling idea.

The only thing they could think to do was to start digging into Red John's past, to see if they could connect the deceased killer to someone else, _anyone_ else. To that end, boxes of journals and notes and books had found their way to the Serious Crimes Unit.

Jane had dug into the papers with the same single-mindedness he employed any time a puzzle caught his attention. Granted, there was more intensity than normal, given the circumstances, but it was still Jane behaving like normal.

When she stopped to think about it, it _did_ make her a little nervous, this sudden shift in his attitude. It was like he had just traded one obsession for another. At least it was giving him something to hang on to, though. Before, it was as if he'd simply been adrift.

There were times that she'd seen him be very present, however. She would look up from paperwork and find his brilliant gaze resting on her, eyes thoughtful and deep, the way he used to be.

She was also still trying to work out what he'd meant when he'd told her _I had plans_ in his drunken state. There were several things that fit the bill, and several _more_ things she _wanted_ to fit the bill, but she simply wasn't sure. She hoped it meant what she thought it did - that he had always intended to be with her when this nightmare with Red John finally reached its conclusion.

She was just now beginning to understand the obstacles that they were going to have to walk through to make their dreams into a reality. Fortunately for both of them, Jane hadn't attempted to cross that line in his vacant state, simply because he thought he _should_. She had been waiting for the walls to crumble, the waters to part for nearly a decade, and it hadn't been so she could be with a dim shadow of the man she loved.

The sudden presence of the aforementioned man in her office pulled her out of her mulling thoughts. He was armed with a teacup and a bag that looked like it held take-out.

Reaching into the bag, he tossed one Styrofoam container on her desk. "The finest club sandwich in Sacramento," he told her. "Or at least the finest club sandwich within walking distance of CBI. And don't worry," he added. "I made sure to order fries, too."

She frowned as he sat at her small table with his own lunch. "What's this for?"

He tried to look innocent. "Well, since I know the only food you've consumed in the past day came from a vending machine, I figured I'd take matters into my own hands. I don't want to have to worry about you passing out somewhere from lack of nutrition."

Scowling, she pried open the container. "I'm doing just fine, thank you." Still, she had to admit that the food was delicious. She hadn't realized how hungry she was for an actual meal that, like Jane had said, didn't come from a vending machine. Chips and candy bars could only take you so far.

She was halfway through her fries when the phone rang. Quickly wiping her now-greasy hands, she grabbed for the receiver. "Lisbon."

It turned out to be forensics, informing them that there had been no usable evidence at the crime scene of their latest victim. Unsurprising, but still disappointing.

Jane either heard the conversation or read her expression, because his first comment after she hung up was, "So. Crime scene's a dead end." It wasn't a question.

She shrugged. "We sort of figured it would be."

He stretched his legs out. "Back to digging through poorly hand-written notes, I suppose."

Tossing her finished lunch into the trash, she reached for a leather-bound book that, to her knowledge, had been found in Red John's bedroom.

The man had liked to journal, they'd discovered. It turned out to be more philosophical clap-trap than actual life events, but she found it interesting nonetheless. Piece by piece, a clearer picture of the man responsible for causing so much pain and misery and rage was starting to emerge. He truly had believed he was some sort of God-send. A cleanser of the earth, a prophet.

It was no wonder he'd managed to attract a cult-like following. People were always willing to put their faith in someone who sounded as self-assured as Red John undoubtedly had.

She was bothered by the fact that some of the dogma that was written between these pages sounded alarmingly like the beliefs she espoused.

Feeling an ache start to develop between her shoulder blades, she grabbed her things and moved to the couch, grateful for the soft cushions at her back. A few minutes later, Jane joined her with his own stack of files.

"Too bad no one has actual address books these days," he remarked once. "It would make our job much easier."

"Maybe the techs will find something on his computer," she suggested. "His Christmas card list, maybe."

Jane snorted. "Have we had any luck even finding out what this guy's real name was?"

She turned a page of her book. "Nope. We just keep coming up against walls."

The afternoon wore on. All of the sitting and doing nothing was making her twitchy and tired. She was a person of action - twiddling her thumbs over a case this big went against her very nature.

Abruptly, Jane stood. "Let's go."

She blinked. "Go where?"

"Back to Red John's house," he said. "Let's see if something was missed. Red John wasn't stupid, Lisbon. I doubt he hid all of his secrets in that house anyway."

For sheer lack of any better idea, she took his outstretched hand let him pull her up. "Great," she told him. "A field trip."

She drove. Jane was quiet the whole way there. Of course, that was becoming the norm now. She took a moment to fiercely miss him, the real him.

If there was something worse than missing someone sitting next to you, at least in regards to love, she had yet to find it.

It was a bright, sunny day, just like the last time they'd been in Red John's house. She would have expected lightning and ominous storm clouds. Carefully, she slit the official notice attached to the door, and pushed it open.

The front room looked different than she'd remembered, emptier. The techs had been very thorough.

She wasn't sure what Jane hoped to find here, but he looked supremely interested nonetheless, peering at the unassuming art on the walls.

"I saw windows in the foundation," he said. "I'm assuming there's a basement."

"Uh, yeah," she replied, looking around. "I think I remember reading that. The entrance was in the kitchen, if I'm not mistaken."

Jane made an elaborate gesture, motioning for her to precede him.

Still, he was the one that found the door first. After a moment of fumbling against the wall, he flipped the light switch.

"Shall we?" he asked.

She shot him a sarcastic smile. "Explore the basement of a serial killer? Wow, I can't think of anything I'd like to do more."

As they descended the stairs, she fought the instinctive urge to unholster her weapon.

However, the basement seemed just as harmless as the rest of the house. It was finished in shades of beige, with comfortable furniture and tastefully chosen accent pieces. She was supremely creeped out by the idea that she actually liked Red John's interior design preferences. Hopefully, he had simply hired someone to decorate. It would certainly make her feel better.

Almost immediately, Jane was drawn to the far wall of the room, covered in a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. She recognized the look on his face - he had been visited by one of his outlandish ideas, the ones that, unfortunately, tended to be accurate.

She watched him run his fingers over the spines of several books, tapping lightly here and there. There was a slight smile playing around his lips. It widened abruptly, and he pulled a book off the shelf and reached towards the wall.

She heard a _click_, and Jane rolled the entire bookcase to the side.

"Are you kidding?" she whispered in disbelief. "He has a lair. An honest to God lair."

Jane's eyes had never left the gaping hole in the wall. "A little cliche, I have to admit, but it's sort of a nice effect."

She pulled out her penlight, which looked useless compared to the blackness they were facing, and stood next to Jane.

"I'm pretty sure you can go first this time," she said.

He smirked, but they walked forward together just the same, keeping close to the wall.

It was almost impossible to see anything the farther in they went. Her mind was playing tricks on her, but it felt like they were going to be attacked at any moment.

"There has to be a light switch somewhere," she muttered. "I'm pretty sure he couldn't see in the dark."

Unless, of course, he was actually the devil. Which was definitely a possibility.

Their footsteps echoed on the hard floors, and the sound seemed to go on forever. When Jane's shoulder brushed hers, she jumped.

"Easy, Lisbon," he whispered, arm sliding around her waist.

Normally, she would have shaken it off, but the warmth was welcome now, even if she knew that Jane would be fairly useless in an actual confrontation.

Well, she supposed he had shot Sheriff Hardy for her. On the other hand, she was quite certain that he was unarmed in this particular situation.

They continued forward. Once, she thought she heard a noise from somewhere in front of them and froze.

"This is stupid," she suddenly murmured, tugging out her cell. "I'm calling for back-up."

But she had zero signal. At her side, Jane checked his phone and got much the same result.

"Do you want to go back?" he asked. His expression told her that he intended to keep going, regardless of her answer.

She sighed. "It can't be much deeper, I wouldn't think," she said, trying to convince herself as she spoke.

"I think we picked the wrong side of the room to search for light switches," Jane said lightly.

"No kidding," she deadpanned. "I'm just surprised we haven't tripped yet."

Her tiny light landed on some various office furniture, some filing cabinets, a few computers. She had a feeling that these would be much more helpful when it came to discovering accomplices.

On a whim, tired of hugging the wall and creeping, she pulled a drawer open. It was full of manila folders, each clearly labeled with a different name.

Jane peered over her shoulder. By the way he stiffened at her back, she knew he read the name 'Angela Jane' at the same time she did.

Carefully, she nudged his shoulder. "Are these all the names of victims?" she asked, trying to keep his mind with her.

"Uh," he said, and she recognized that he was trying to pull himself away from the folder labeled with his wife's name. "Yes," he finally responded. "Not all of his victims are here," he added, "but this drawer appears to just house the first part of the alphabet."

He was right, and she found it terrifically disturbing.

"Wait," he murmured, tapping one folder thoughtfully. "I don't recognize this name."

It would be pointless to ask if he was sure he had all of the Red John victims' names memorized; she was sure he did.

"Let's keep going," she said eventually.

Although the darkness had affected her senses, she was almost positive they had gone too far to still be beneath the house. In fact, if she had to bet, she would say they were at least under the adjoining lot.

From up ahead, there was another noise, and she gave into her screaming brain and raised her weapon.

"Who's there?" she yelled, pleased that her voice was steady. "Identify yourself!"

Her words reverberated, and she felt like they were mocking her. Goddamnit, she hated underground spaces and darkness when they were put together.

Jane stepped back, slightly behind her now. He could certainly stay there; she didn't need to worry about him getting shot for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Another crash reached them, and she plowed forward, penlight held across her gun.

Her narrow field of vision was a terrific handicap, and she cursed as she made contact with a low, solid object. Still swearing, she continued forward, wondering what she was about to encounter.

Distantly, she heard a sound that reminded her of the power going out.

In the next moment, she was blindsided by a heavy blow to her side. She held onto her gun, the small flashlight flying away from her. It landed on the ground, sputtered for a moment, then went out.

Instinctively, she crawled, but she was hit again before she had gone more than a few feet. This time, she tasted blood and saw stars explode across her eyes.

She heard running feet, then, dimly, the slamming of a door.

"Lisbon!" came Jane's shout. She focused on his voice, but it was difficult.

His words came again. "Lisbon!"

"I'm here," she managed to call, and she heard him change direction, steps coming close. "Right here," she said again, hoping to avoid being trampled on. Her voice sounded faint to her own ears.

The rustling of fabric reached her, and then she felt his hands search her out. "Can you sit up?" he asked.

She tried, but the world spun into a dizzying vortex of black. She made a sound somewhere between a groan and a cry of pain, and Jane carefully shifted so her head was in his lap. His fingers brushed the hair out of her face, all by touch.

"What the hell happened?" he asked.

"Someone else was here," she whispered. She coughed, and it was painful.

"Yes, I gathered that," he replied, and through her pain, she felt a twinge of annoyance. If he knew, why did he even ask in the first place?

"You need to go back," she told him. "We have to get out of here."

"And leave you here?" he demanded incredulously. "That's not very likely, Lisbon."

Though touched by his reluctance to go without her, she rolled her eyes. "I don't think I can walk very far right now, Jane. Our best option is for you to get out of here, find some cell signal, and call for help."

She pressed her gun into one of his hands. "Just in case," she whispered.

He shifted again, and she could feel him lean over her prone form, still laying across his lap. "I'm not leaving you unarmed. Just in case," he repeated, "and all of that."

She smiled, even though she knew he couldn't see it. "I'm not unarmed."

"Ah," he said, and she could hear the chuckle in his voice. "Of course. Poster girl for the NRA. I'd almost forgotten."

He moved again, and she felt his wadded-up jacket slide beneath her head as he went to stand.

"Be back soon," he promised, trailing one finger down her cheek before he was gone. She missed the warmth of his body immediately. "Yell if you need me."

"Hurry," she said, unnecessarily.

Eventually, his careful footsteps faded away, and she had all the time she wanted to reflect upon how vulnerable she now was, even with her back-up gun clutched in her hand. Her head hurt, but not as much as her ribs. The first hit she took might have bruised them, if not cracked a few. Even breathing was painful.

After what seemed like a small eternity, she heard noises again.

"Jane?" she called out, hoping very much she wasn't going to need to shoot at something she couldn't see.

"Just me," he replied, and she let out a breath in relief as he crouched at her side again. "And I have bad news."

"Oh, God," she groaned.

"Indeed," he said. "The wall is sealed at the other end. I tried to find a lever, but I couldn't. I _did_, however, find the lights, which don't appear to be working at this particular time."

She remembered the peculiar noise she'd heard, just before she was knocked over. Whoever had been down here with them had cut the power, effectively trapping them in the dark. She made a mental note to shoot them at some point in the future.

"Shit."

"Funny, that's precisely what I thought, too."

With a sigh, she heaved herself up then sat very still, hoping the world would stop making her dizzy. Eventually, everything settled back into place, but it took much longer than she would have liked.

"Well," she said slowly, "I guess we'd better get going."

"Forward?" Jane asked. "I suppose that's our only option at this point. We have to end up somewhere."

He reached for her hands, helping her up. Once she regained her feet, she took a moment to lean on him heavily. The movement had cost her dearly, but it was going to get harder before it got easier.

Carefully, he traced his fingers down her back, his touch comforting. "Anytime you need to stop," he told her, "tell me."

She stepped back, but was grateful when his arm immediately settled at her waist again.

They had gone just a few steps when her toe kicked something metallic and small. Suddenly, a small beam of light stretched across the floor.

Jane let go of her to snatch up her missing flashlight. "Well," he said, "I suppose that's something. Now we don't have to navigate completely in the dark."

_Thank God for small favors,_ she thought.

She suspected they were going to need a lot more if they were ever going to make it out of this.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN:** Thanks for all the support and/or harassing messages telling me to get this thing updated! I need both, so feel free!

Let's get to it, shall we?

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Chapter Six**

When he'd told Lisbon they should go back to Red John's house to dig for more secrets, he most definitely hadn't expected them to wind up in this particular predicament.

He'd thought that maybe he'd find a hidden safe, or a secret compartment in a drawer. A lair was a bit much.

A lair that happened to have a rogue henchman in it was actually over the top. He felt like they were in a bad movie.

Of course, if they were in a movie, help would arrive just in the nick of time. Truthfully, he was counting on that.

Lisbon was leaning heavily against him, breathing labored. Her condition concerned him greatly. Once he'd found her flashlight, he'd given her a quick once-over as best he could. At the minimum, she had a nasty welt rising on her cheek, a split lip, and the way she was favoring her ribs was worrying. He also wasn't convinced that she didn't have some sort of head injury.

Still, she was gritting her teeth and plowing on beside him. He wondered how long she would be able to keep moving. It didn't really matter, he supposed. He would carry her out of here if he had to.

Every so often, he checked for signal on his phone, but thus far there was still none.

The darkness made their going slow, though if he had to guess, he would imagine they had come close to a mile since they'd first entered the hidden room.

Abruptly, Lisbon stopped. "Sorry," she said, almost panting. "Can we stop for a few minutes? I think I need to sit down."

"Of course," he replied instantly, carefully helping her to the floor before dropping down beside her. Some time ago, they'd given up on hugging the wall, and so his shoulder was the only thing she had to lean on.

In the glow of the penlight, she looked too pale, dark lashes closed as she took time to rest her aching body.

He put an arm around her, making certain he avoided her ribs.

"Jane?" she murmured. "No more field trips."

He chuckled darkly. "Whatever you say, boss."

She started to take a deep breath, but appeared to think better of it. "It would be faster if you went ahead by yourself."

"That's not going to happen, Lisbon, so just get over it." He had hated to even leave her the first time he'd gone to check the door. It was not an option he was willing to consider at this point. He had no idea how much further until they found some sort of exit, or if there was anyone else lurking in the darkness. Poor protection though he may be, he was better than nothing.

Lisbon leaned further into him, breath drifting across his neck. He rested his cheek on top of her hair, reaching for her free hand with his own.

"It'll be alright," he whispered, lacing their fingers together. It was a little awkward, the way they were sitting, but he was utterly uninterested in moving.

She was quiet, her cold hand still held in his.

He was at least glad that he was managing to face this moment with clarity. Ever since the emergence of their copy-cat killer, his mind had been sharp.

Truthfully, though, he didn't trust it. It felt as though he was merely waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to send him spiraling back into darkness.

In some of his more cynical moments, he wondered what that said about him - that he could only function normally, feel things like a regular human, when he was focused on a serial killer. That probably made him some sort of sociopath.

But then Lisbon's thumb brushed over his, and he knew that wasn't entirely true. She had the ability to bring him out of his misery, even if she didn't know it.

He would be so very lost without her.

It was frustrating, not knowing what he could do to fix himself. He wanted to be the sort of man she deserved, but it was starting to seem like that idea was some sort of a fever dream.

Perhaps if he focused all of his energy on that task, it would be enough to truly make it a reality. It was something he didn't have the luxury of doing now, however. Red John was still refusing to die.

He hoped that some day he could be totally free of the nightmare associated with that man. At the moment, it wasn't looking like a grand possibility.

Maybe then he could figure out his own life.

Of course, his brain helpfully supplied, he could always try to be happy _now_.

It was such a foreign concept that he actually frowned.

How would he even go about doing that?

He could tell Lisbon everything that was on his mind, in his heart. Let her try to heal him. She might even be successful. He could try to have a life with her. One that included nights not spent sleeping, Saturday afternoons at the grocery store, and tiny feet running up and down stairs.

The images his mind dredged up made him feel like a large part of the armor he'd had around himself for a decade simply cracked and fell away, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.

Rationally, he recognized it as a good step, even if it was terrifying.

Even more rationally, he understood that _now_ was not an ideal time and place for such epiphanies.

Fortunately, Lisbon chose that moment to release his hand. "I suppose we should keep moving."

"If you're sure," he told her.

He helped her stand, then took as much of her weight as she would give him. Her stubborn streak prevented her from totally relying on him, and he smiled in the darkness, knowing she couldn't see it.

After a while, he was almost certain they were going up an incline. Though it made walking more strenuous on Lisbon, it meant they were getting closer to the surface of the earth, which meant cell phone signal.

The ground they were on had gradually shifted from tile to unfinished concrete, echoing every one of their footsteps. If someone else was waiting for them, he and Lisbon might as well have been wearing flashing neon signs.

However, he hadn't heard anything since Lisbon had been attacked, and he was fairly certain if a minion wanted to kill them, they had already been given ample opportunity.

They paused once more at Lisbon's request, and he was alarmed when she coughed up something that looked blood.

He wasn't prepared to deal with internal bleeding at the moment.

"How's your head?" he asked once.

"Still attached, to the best of my knowledge," she told him, voice sounding strained. "That's about all I can say."

He shut up after that, hoping fervently that they didn't have much farther to go.

The next time he checked his phone, there was one signal bar.

Pulling Lisbon to a halt, he hastily found Cho's number and pressed_ send._ The detective answered on the second ring.

"Jane," he said. "Where the hell are you and Lisbon? No one's been able to reach you in hours."

Stupidly, he smiled. "You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice," he said. Rapidly, he gave Cho a concise version of what had happened. "Track my phone," he added. "I have no idea where we are right now."

"We're coming," Cho informed him. "According to GPS, you're right under a house about three quarters of a mile away from where you started. Keep going up. We'll have people at both ends of the tunnel in twenty minutes."

"Good news," he said. "And make sure you send an ambulance." His eyes were back on Lisbon, who had started to look ashen. He could feel her trembling against him.

He disconnected the call, his relief tempered with worry.

"Let's go," she ground out, and even in the dim light, he knew what it cost her to speak.

Tucking his phone back in his pocket, he ducked down and scooped her into his arms. She hissed at the unexpected movement, hands immediately going to her ribs, but he figured it was better to do pick her up when she was relatively at ease. She didn't need to tense her muscles any more.

"Take it easy," he said, making sure he was perfectly balanced before starting forward. "You're going to kill yourself if you keep moving."

"Jane!" she practically yelled. "You are _not_ carrying me!"

"That's funny," he replied, "because I certainly seem to be. It'll be easier if you put your arms around my neck," he added.

After a few more moments of fuming silence, she did, and he shifted to accommodate the change in her position.

As he walked, he began to bitterly regret skipping out on going to the gym these past years. Lisbon wasn't heavy, certainly, but he was much more out of shape than he'd realized.

The incline they were going up seemed to get steeper, and his body started to angrily protest the strain he was putting it under. He focused his mind instead, concentrating until the ache he was feeling dissipated.

Mind over matter, that was all.

In the distance, he thought he could hear noises, and he picked up his pace. They were going to make it out of here. He wasn't going to allow any other outcomes.

Suddenly, there was a bright opening in the darkness. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the change, but then he understood he was looking at a doorway.

"Lisbon?" came Rigby's voice. "Jane?"

"We're here!" he yelled back.

He heard the running feet before he saw the silhouettes, but before he knew it, Rigsby and Van Pelt were in front of them.

The expressions on their faces as they took in his bedraggled form with a battered Lisbon in his arms would have been comical under other circumstances.

"What the hell happened?" Rigsby asked.

"Long story," Lisbon managed to say.

"Can we move, please?" he asked. "I'm pretty sure your boss wouldn't appreciate me dropping her at this point."

His words galvanized the team into action. They stepped to the side to let him pass, but Rigsby walked close to his side the whole way, hands occasionally clenching, clearly ready to catch Lisbon if he should falter.

The paramedics were already waiting for them when they finally reached the basement of the connecting house, alerted by Grace when she'd run back in front of them.

Gratefully, he sat Lisbon down on the stretcher. He did note the loss of her body heat as her arms slid away from his shoulders, though.

Fully in the light, she looked awful, worse than he had ben able to discern earlier. He should have been carrying her from the beginning.

One side of her face was going to be black and blue before night. There were smears of blood on her cheek and in the corners of her mouth.

She leaned back on the gurney, closing her eyes, looking supremely miserable. As the paramedics readied her for transport, he leaned close to her ear.

"I told you we'd make it," he whispered.

Her lashes fluttered open for just a second, and he saw the warmth there. She held out her hand, searching, and he grasped it. Squeezing his fingers, she offered him the beginnings of a smile. "Thank you," she breathed.

If they hadn't been surrounded by various members of the CBI, he would have kissed her on the forehead. As it was, he softly caressed her knuckles, hoping she could read his intentions in his touch.

His eyes followed her as she was wheeled out. He decided it made him nervous when she was out of his sight.

Rigsby's phone rang, distracting him, and he turned to Grace.

"Who does this place belong to?" he asked, motioning around the unfinished room.

She shook her head. "No one, as far as I can tell. It's been abandoned for a few years."

"Of course," he said.

"Light's are coming back on," Rigsby announced, putting his phone away, and Jane turned back to the door he'd just come through.

He wanted to follow Lisbon to the hospital, but he needed to see this place with his own eyes.

There was an electrical hum, and then rows of fluorescent lighting turned on over their heads.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but they appeared to be in a long tunnel. The walls were earthen and only the floor was man-made. It was entirely empty.

The rest of the team started forward, and Jane trailed in their wake, reflecting once that they were moving much faster than he and Lisbon had managed the first time.

Around ten minutes later, they had reached the tile floor that signaled their arrival back in what he could only think of as Red John's lair.

There was a sliding door separating it from the tunnel, a door that had been conveniently opened for them.

Abruptly, he stopped when the room itself came into view.

There were a wealth of smiling faces drawn on all the walls, each one slightly altered, as though they had been done by a different hand.

From behind him, he heard Rigsby swear. "I thought one room full of creepy smily faces was enough for a lifetime," he muttered. "Apparently, I was wrong."

Jane blinked, then started towards the myriad of filing cabinets. He picked one at random, grateful when he discovered it didn't contain his wife's name. He knew some of the names he saw, but again, there were a few that caused him to draw a blank.

Other than the faces on the walls, it could have been any other office space in the country. He didn't trust it, not at all, but he had seen enough for now.

"Make sure all of these files get back to CBI," he told Grace. "_All_ of them," he emphasized, and she nodded her understanding. "I'm going to check on Lisbon."

Still, it was almost an hour before he found himself in the waiting room of the nearest hospital. Cho had accosted him and demanded a statement, among other things. He was feeling very twitchy indeed by the time he was free to go.

Not ten minutes after he'd arrived and harassed the nearest nurse for information, a scrub-clad doctor appeared in front of him.

"You're with Agent Lisbon?" he confirmed.

Jane nodded. Having official identification did have its perks from time to time.

"She has two broken ribs," the doctor told him, "and a few more that are cracked. She also took a good blow to her head," he went on. "She passed the concussion test, however, so that's good news."

He digested this information for a moment. "She looked like she was coughing up blood," he ventured.

The doctor shook his head. "We've already checked for internal bleeding. What you saw was from the wounds inside her mouth. They're shallow, but they still bled."

Jane let out a breath. "Can I see her?"

"Sure," the other man said. "We're going to keep her overnight, just for observation, but she should be free to go in the morning."

He stopped listening after that.

When he pushed the door to her room open, Lisbon was lying on her back, seemingly asleep. But as soon as he took a step inside, her eyes opened and she smiled at him.

"Hey," he said, relieved more than he cared to admit.

"Hey yourself," she responded. "Apparently I'm going to live."

"That's a very good thing," he told her, coming to sit on the edge of her bed. "How are you feeling?" he asked after a moment.

"Like I'm on a lot of painkillers."

When he looked closer, he could see that her eyes were a little glossy. Basically, he was dealing with the equivalent of a drunken Lisbon. He was still just grateful she was alright.

He took her hand, pleased that it was warmer than the last time. "I'm afraid you're stuck here for the night," he informed her.

She shrugged, then looked liked she regretted it. The shadows under her eyes were pronounced. "I'd rather be here than in that damn tunnel."

"Fair point," he conceded. "Why don't you get some rest? You've had quite the day."

By now, she looked almost too tired to smile at him, but she tried anyway.

Chuckling softly, he pulled the blankets up to her shoulders, tucking her in as if she was a small child. Impulsively, he leaned down and kissed her on the forehead lightly, then ghosted his lips to her temple.

"Go to sleep," he whispered.

Her eyes were already closed.

"Mmm," she replied. Then, "Stay."

Smiling now, chest feeling full, he lowered himself into the chair next to her bed. "I will," he promised.

And he did.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN:** Wow, chapter seven already? Usually I like to have Jane and Lisbon practically married by this point.

Thanks so much for your support guys – reviews are inspiring, and I certainly need that at the moment. I picked a very bad time to start a multichapter, and my brain is punishing me for that choice by refusing to give me helpful ideas. It does, however, come up with plenty of stupid ones.

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Chapter Seven**

Lisbon felt like she was fighting her way out of a fog as she struggled to wake up. Sleep kept coming over her in waves, holding her down.

When she finally managed to wrench her eyes, the first thing she saw was Jane, sound asleep in the vinyl recliner at her bedside. He looked uncomfortable, she decided, but she was glad he was there.

About that time, she realized she was in a considerable amount of pain. So much so, in fact, that her first instinct was to suck in a deep, bracing breath. It turned out to be a very large mistake.

"_Shit_," she hissed, hands going to her ribs.

Her motions roused her consultant. Concerned green eyes landed on her. "Morning," he said, brows furrowed. "Do you need me to get a nurse?"

Gingerly, she resettled herself, trying to remember where else she was wounded. "I'm okay," she told Jane. "I guess I just forgot I had cracked ribs."

He smiled, just a little. "I'll bet you don't again."

She made a face at him. "You didn't have to stay here, you know. I'm sure you didn't get a lot of sleep."

"You do remember that you asked me to stay, yes?" Jane asked, frowning now.

"I did?" She blinked. "When did I do that?"

His smile this time was full-blown, and like always, it was an effort to not be blinded by it. "When you were under the influence of some pretty heavy painkillers." He paused. "What do you remember from last night?"

She tried to recall, but it was more than a little hazy. "I remember getting here," she mused. Actually, she'd had her eyes closed during the ambulance ride, choosing instead to dwell on the warmth of Jane's hand as he'd held hers, the feeling of his heart under her cheek when he was carrying her.

It had definitely been more pleasant than thinking about her injuries.

"And I remember talking to the doctor," she went on. "And I think I sort of remember you being in here." She squinted, as though that would help her. "It's just a blur past that."

She couldn't believe she'd actually asked him to stay – and even more, that he _had_. She would have thought that he would already be holed up in his attic with the files they'd found. It was painful, thinking about the emotions he would likely go through when he read Red John's notes on his wife.

Jane pushed himself out of the recliner. He stretched for a moment, then took the few steps that led him to her beside.

As he peered down into her face, he smiled, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She could read him well enough by now to know that he was hiding something from her. Her best guess would be that she had said something ridiculous the night before.

Oh, God. She was suddenly visited by the idea that instead of something stupid, she had told him something vastly important, something that she had intended to keep hidden.

Rationally, she knew that this probably had something to do with karma. After all, she still hadn't told him what he'd let slip when he was drunk at her apartment. What could she have possibly told him that would be more revealing than that had been?

Well, for one, she could have told him she loved him.

That was certainly her greatest fear, but she supposed there were other things almost as bad.

"Ignoring your ribs, how do you feel?" Jane asked, brushing their last topic of conversation aside.

She considered. "My head hurts," she said, "but other than that, I think I'm alright."

He nodded. "I'm going to go hunt down a nurse," he told her. "Hopefully you'll be able to blow this popsicle stand before too much longer."

Lisbon frowned at his back as he left the room. She wanted to know what they'd found in Red John's hidden basement, wanted to know if they had any leads on the person that had attacked her.

But her questions were delayed as she was prodded and poked and examined. Within the hour, she was signing her discharge forms. Jane lounged against the wall in her room the whole time.

Slowly, they walked out together. Moving in such a manner caused her more pain than she was willing to admit.

When he pulled in the parking lot of her apartment, she felt herself start to relax. There was just something so comforting about going home.

Jane kept a hand at her back until they were safely inside.

"Lie down," he told her. "Unless the place catches on fire, I don't want you getting up."

She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. Still, she settled herself on the couch, pulling a throw blanket over herself.

"Thanks for the ride," she said, falling back on good manners, no matter how annoying Jane was being.

"You're very welcome," he replied, sitting down across from her on the loveseat.

"Jane," she began, "you don't need to babysit me. I know you're just itching to get your hands on those files."

"I am," he admitted, "but I don't need to be distracted from them by worrying about you, which is precisely what would happen."

She hid her smile, grateful when his phone rang.

"Grace," he said, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Sure," he went on. Then his expression changed. Green eyes locked on her face. "What? What's it say?" He listened intently for a moment. "Yes, do that."

She felt a cold, creeping touch of fear. "Yes," he replied in answer to some question. "I'm with her, but actual cops would make me feel better." Another pause. "See you soon."

He hung up.

"What?" she asked immediately.

He chewed on his lower lip for a second, thinking, before responding. "Remember those files we found? The ones that had the names of victims on them?"

"Yes," she breathed, not liking where this was going at all.

"Your name was on one of them."

**XxXxXxXxXxX**

His immediate urge was to lock Lisbon in a closet until this unexpected threat had been sorted out. Somehow he didn't think that would go over well, however.

Instead, he peered compulsively out the windows until the SCU team arrived.

There was something bizarre happening, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. The names on the files he'd seen had all been victims. Well, he hadn't been able to verify the one, but it was possible that there had been a victim in Red John's early years that hadn't been murdered in the man's typical style.

And he supposed it wasn't such a shock that there was a file on Lisbon somewhere. She had been such an important part of his life for so long that it would have been impossible to miss it.

It still made him distinctly uneasy that her name had been found in a filing cabinet full of people who were dead.

Lisbon hadn't said much since he'd told her the news. She didn't seem particularly worried – just confused. Then again, perhaps she was just holding onto her professionalism.

He saw the team pull up and met them at the door. They were all carrying boxes of files.

"I think that'll be enough reading material, even for you, Jane," Rigsby said by way of greeting.

Grace handed him the folder on the top of her pile. Very clearly, it was labeled _Lisbon, Teresa_.

He sat at Lisbon's feet on the couch, already flipping through the documents it contained. There was a copy of her birth certificate, some newspaper articles, her service records from SFPD. Additionally, much to his horror, there was a sheet that clearly listed her home address, phone number, make and model of her car, along with her license plate number.

Without a word, he handed Lisbon what he'd already read.

She quickly flipped through the information. "Okay," she said eventually. "Admittedly, this is a little creepy, but maybe it's not all that surprising that Red John was keeping tabs on me. There's probably a file for each of you guys, too."

"There's not," Cho told her. "We already checked."

Lisbon blinked, but then plowed on. "Okay, well, what about the rest of the names you've found? Are they all dead?"

"Mostly," Rigsby said. "However, there are a few here and there that aren't. They always have a connection to a victim though. Except you, boss."

"Jane's in there," Grace added, "and so is Danny Ruskin."

He blinked. "Danny? That's strange."

She nodded. "Yeah, I thought so, too. I can't figure out why."

Cho spoke again. "So what are we going to do about this? Obviously, we're all concerned for Lisbon's safety here, especially with a copycat on the loose."

"Surveillance teams, patrolling officers, whatever it takes," Rigsby said.

Predictably, Lisbon shook her head. "Look, guys, thanks for looking out for me, but that's really not necessary. I'm probably just in there because of Jane."

"Doubt it," Cho said succinctly. "Well, you _are_ probably in there because of Jane, but I don't think it's just because you're someone he works with."

Clearly, Cho thought that Lisbon's not having a direct connection with any victim meant that she was going to _be_ a victim. Although Jane himself wasn't sure about that idea, he certainly wasn't willing to take chances with her life.

"He means stop arguing," Jane told her.

"Exactly," Cho said. "I'll call HQ, get everything set up."

The team stuck around even after Lisbon's security detail showed up, and Jane sprang for pizza. He knew they were all just worried about their boss, and he felt that loyalty should be rewarded.

As far as he was concerned, Lisbon was going to have to forcibly remove him from the premises. And since she currently was sporting cracked ribs, he didn't think that was very likely.

Eventually, Rigsby, Cho, and Grace wandered off, though he doubted they were going far. They left Red John's files with him, and he suspected he would be up most of the night with them.

Lisbon watched television while he sorted through the boxes. She had offered to help him, but he preferred to do this on his own. His fingers kept reaching out and sliding over Angela's folder that he had yet to open.

Charlotte had no file.

When Lisbon's eyelids started to droop, he snatched the remote control from her and pressed the power button.

"You should get some sleep. You know, in a real bed."

She made a face at him. "Stop hovering, Jane."

Oh, she thought _this_ was hovering? She had no idea how obsessive he could be if he wasn't trying to contain himself.

"Stop disobeying orders from your doctor, Lisbon," he retorted.

She looked like she wanted to smack him, but refrained. Slowly, she stood up, holding on to the arm of the couch until she found her balance. Her face was contorted in pain.

"You might be onto something about the bed," he told her. "I think my mattress last night was made of rocks."

She waited for him to respond, but he simply nodded and reached for another box of files. "Jane you don't need to stay here," she said for the second time that day.

He fixed her with an exasperated stare. "But I'm going to anyway, Lisbon, and nothing you say is going to make a bit of difference. So just go to sleep."

He was a little surprised she didn't stick her tongue out at him. "Fine," she eventually sighed. "Don't stay up all night."

An hour later, he still hadn't touched his wife's file, or his own. There would be something unspeakably awful about perusing the research that a serial killer had compiled on her before ending her life. And he didn't want to see the evidence of his own guilt written out either.

Standing, he peeked out of the blinds covering the windows. He could see the police vehicles parked in the lot, and it made him feel better.

Of course, when Red John had wanted Kristina Frye, he had found a way to get her, police protection or no.

The thought chilled him, and on a whim, he quickly climbed the stairs to the second floor. He had only been up here once before, the night Lisbon had put on the performance of her life before arresting her psychologist, but he remembered the way.

Her door was shut.

He had another unpleasant flashback of another door down a hallway, and his fingers shook as he turned the knob.

This time, there was no bedside lamp illuminating a nightmarish greeting on the wall by the bed. The room was dark, peaceful.

In the light spilling in from the hall, he could see Lisbon in bed, her back to him.

He let out a deep, relieved breath.

Less than a second later, she moved abruptly, rolling to face the now-open door. She blinked rapidly several times. "Jane?" she murmured, voice scratchy. "What are you doing?"

He smiled sheepishly. "Checking on you," he admitted. "I've recently discovered I'm a little paranoid."

"No kidding," she deadpanned. Then she looked closer at his face. "Are you alright?"

"Just fine," he said. "Jumpy, I suppose, but just fine."

"Talk to me," she requested, and he pushed himself away from the doorframe to perch on the side of her bed.

"I can't put my finger on what's going to happen next, Lisbon, and it's bothering me very much." He tapped his fingers together. "I feel like I'm missing a huge piece of the puzzle, and it's going to cost me. Something's just not adding up."

She poked him in the ribs lightly. "Obsessing about it all night isn't going to solve the problem."

"Says you," he retorted. "I do some of my best work when I'm obsessing in the middle of the night, thank you very much."

"Well, stop," she said. "It makes me nervous, thinking of you rambling around downstairs at all hours."

"Afraid I'll start digging through drawers?" he asked, teasing now.

"Among other things," she replied vaguely. Her eyes were closed again, and he took a moment to study her profile. She was indescribably lovely in the soft light.

"Sorry about getting you trapped underneath a serial killer's house," he murmured, voice warm and amused.

Her lips quirked upwards. "You're forgiven, considering you got me out."

"I have to admit," he said, "I was nervous there for a while." He gently touched the back of her hand. "You're freezing," he noted immediately.

She shrugged. "I'll warm up. I think it's just…what happened yesterday and those damn files and everything else that's going on."

He considered the problem, then took the opportunity to make a long-standing fantasy a reality. Without waiting for permission, he stood up, went to the other side of the bed, and crawled beneath the blankets, reaching for her. His lips were practically touching the back of her neck.

She stiffened, predictably. "What are you doing?" she demanded. But she didn't push him away.

"Making sure you don't get hypothermia," he told her, wrapping his arms around her. She really was cold. In no way did that detract from how wonderful it felt to hold her like this.

He was very careful with her ribs, and after a few moments, she began to relax a little. "I promise to behave," he whispered. "Besides, this way you know I'm not rifling through cupboards or whatever it is you think I'll get up to."

She shifted, leaning back into his body, and he smiled.

"See?" he breathed. "Not so bad, is it?" He closed his eyes.

She curled one of her hands around his forearm. "Shut up, Jane."

**AN: Reviews make me write faster. (Shameless hint)**


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: **Sorry I took longer than normal getting this one up! Hope you like it! Let me know what you think…I seriously enjoy hearing everyone's thoughts and theories!

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Chapter Eight**

When she woke up with a very warm Patrick Jane wrapped around her, Lisbon decided instantly that it was her new favorite way to start the morning.

At some point during the night, he had laced his fingers with hers, and she could feel his breath on the back of her neck.

Everything about this moment was peaceful, a far cry from the past few days. The sun was just beginning to rise, touching the corners of her room with rose-gold light. It would take an earthquake or some other act of God to get her to move.

She took the opportunity to wonder what life would be like if this was an everyday thing – waking up next to Jane.

The sudden ache of pure want that clenched around her heart left her breathless. She squeezed her eyes shut. _Please_, she prayed silently.

When it came to Jane, she had long stopped spelling out what she wanted in her prayers. There were a variety of reasons why – she tried hard to not pray for selfish things, it was difficult to know what, exactly, she should pray to keep him safe from – but mainly because she wasn't precisely sure what she wanted anymore.

She used to be specific – _please God, set him free from Red John_, or _please, God, let him leave the past behind him_.

_Please let him love me._ That last one was particularly outrageous she knew. Her God couldn't do a thing about free will. But she had read many times about instances where He had changed people's hearts, and that's what she was holding on to.

That had all stopped years ago. She had come to the conclusion that Jane without all of his emotional baggage and obsessions and flaws wouldn't be the man she had fallen in love with. Long ago, she had come to the conclusion that if you wanted to change a person that significantly, you had no business being in love with them in the first place.

So she had started offering up simple, one word prayers, hoping God could make sense of her tangled mass of emotions. _Please keep him safe. Please let his idea work. Please let him come back to me. _

Jane shifted behind her, and she suspected he was going to wake soon.

She tried to memorize all the details of this moment. The precise feeling of his arm draped across her waist, the exact rhythm of his breathing, how he smelled. She had no idea when she was going to get to experience this again, and she might need these memories to get her through another long, lonely nine years.

Up until this point, she only had a few brief hugs, a dance or two, some casual touches and a few loaded looks. And one apparently forgotten declaration of love that had hurt her as much as it thrilled her.

Nothing so concrete as the sensation of him sleeping at her back. In her _bed_.

She heard his deep intake of breath, felt him start to unconsciously stretch. He released her fingers for a moment, but then resettled his arms around her.

"Morning, Lisbon," came his sleepy murmur, and the warmth of his tone went all the way to her soul.

"Hey," she said, trying for nonchalance. She was distinctly unsure of what to say next.

"Sleep well?" he asked.

She forced herself to speak normally. "Surprisingly well," she admitted. That much was true. When he had first crawled in beside her, she had come to the immediate conclusion that she was simply going to stay awake for the next eight hours.

"Hmm," he hummed. "Me, too."

They were silent then, neither of them making any sort of move to end their moment of peace.

Reality, however, had an unfortunate way of creeping in.

Her phone rang, cutting across the soft silence of the room with a shrill beeping. Regretfully, she sat up, Jane's arms falling away from her.

"Lisbon," she said, blinking rapidly in an effort to wake up properly.

"Boss," came Cho's voice. "Bad news."

She sighed. "Just how I like to start my mornings, Cho." Fervently, she wished she'd already had a cup of coffee before she had to deal with whatever was coming. "What's going on?" She could feel Jane sitting up behind her, could feel his sudden alertness, so at odds with their previously languid morning.

Her right hand man didn't waste time with extra words. "There's been another copycat murder."

"Shit," she breathed. It seemed to be the word that best described her feelings lately.

"It happened close to the Oregon border," Cho told her. "Local police found the body this morning and called us in. Someone sent me a picture of the smiley face on the wall."

She ran her fingers through her hair. "Traditional Red John version or the updated one we saw the other day?"

"Neither." She could hear the trepidation in his voice. "It's different yet."

She swore again.

The mattress shifted, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jane stand. For just a second, the span of a heartbeat, maybe, she took in his appearance after spending the night with her. The messy hair, the wrinkled shirt, the creases in his face from the seams of her sheets. One more moment to commit to her fantasies.

"Are you at the office?" she asked Cho, focusing again on their newest case.

"Yeah," he replied. "Rigsby is outside of your apartment still. Van Pelt is on her way in now."

"Okay," she said. "Jane and I will be in soon. We're going with you when you check out the crime scene."

"Boss, you have cracked ribs," Cho reminded her. Like she could have forgotten.

"I'm fine," she said reflexively. Her injuries were definitely not a priority at the moment. "See you soon." She hung up before Cho could argue further. Which, of course, he would have. He was just concerned for her safety, and she couldn't fault him for that.

She looked up at Jane, now resting his shoulders against her doorframe. "I'm assuming you heard most of that." It wasn't a question.

He nodded. "Two copycats now. Just what we need." His thoughts were somewhere other than their conversation, at least partly.

Slowly, taking care with her battered ribs, she stood, letting out a shallow breath when she had managed to make it to her feet.

Jane's attention came fully back to her then. "Cho's right, you know. You have absolutely no business going out to a crime scene in the shape you're in."

She waved her hand dismissively. "I promise not to overdo it," she said, meaning it for the most part. "I swear I won't tackle anyone."

He rolled his eyes, but she knew she had won this round. "I'm driving," was all he said in reply.

A half hour later, after a quickly, surprisingly painful shower, she was carefully sliding into the passenger seat of her usual CBI vehicle that was still parked at her apartment.

They were the last two to arrive at the office. Rigsby was unshaven, but didn't look totally exhausted. She felt a new wave of affection and gratitude wash over her. Her team was absolutely amazing.

"We'll take two cars," she said, making sure to put authority in her voice. Even if she was injured, she was still the boss, and the stronger she appeared, the less her agents would be hovering around her.

She assumed Jane would be the exception, though. He always was, usually regardless of the circumstances.

The drive to far northern California was long, and she found it uncomfortable. The combination of seat belts, sitting up, and the general cramped atmosphere was not a good one. Every so often, she would feel Jane's eyes flick towards her. He never asked her if she was alright, probably assuming he already knew what her answer would be.

"Did you find anything useful in those files?" she asked eventually.

He shook his head. "I didn't look very hard last night," he answered, and she thought his words were careful. He sucked in a deep breath. "It was…more difficult than I expected, the idea of looking through Angela's file."

His fingers were tight around the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he went on. "I need go through it, obviously, but I really, really don't want to."

She was touched by unexpected candor. "I can't blame you," she said softly.

He shot her a smile, edged with bitterness. "It's going to hold me up with the rest of my searching."

"That's alright," she told him.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It's not. I have this terrible feeling you're in danger, and if I something happens to you because I can't read some files in a folder, then I will never forgive myself."

And he had quite enough things he wasn't going to forgive himself for already.

They fell silent again, and she found she very much wanted to reach for his hand, but with the current state of mind he was in, she wasn't sure it would be welcomed.

When they arrived at their destination, they were greeted by the characteristic yellow tape and flashing lights of local police cruisers.

She tried to keep the grimace off of her face as she walked. Yes, she was in a significant amount of pain, but she was damned if she would admit it.

The smiley face on the wall was indeed different than the other two she had seen. There were enough similarities between it and the others to ensure that a blind person could see that they were connected, but again, just unalike enough to let them know whoever drew this one wanted to be differentiated.

Expression blank, Jane peered briefly under the plastic sheeting that covered the body. It was something he did at every scene.

She should be grateful for the quirk – he had been very good at spotting false Red John cases over the years. Of course, she reminded herself, they knew from the beginning that this wasn't one of them.

"Thoughts?" she asked.

He shook his head. "If it wasn't for the symbol, I wouldn't have known the difference."

That was something extraordinary indeed. And more than a little disquieting.

"Lisbon," he said, looking around the bedroom where the victim had been found. "When I went back into Red John's basement, after they turned the lights on, the walls were all covered in painted faces. They were all slightly different, just like we're seeing now."

She stared, a touch of foreboding brushing the back of her neck. "Meaning what, do you think?"

He shrugged, meeting her eyes. "If every one of those faces was drawn by a different hand…"

She cursed. An army of Red John disciples, all throughout the state. It was something from her darkest nightmares. She remembered the message on the wall from the first crime scene: _It's only beginning_.

The only thing she could do was pray she was wrong.

**XxXxXxXxXxX**

He saw Lisbon catch his meaning, saw the dawning horrified realization cross her face.

For a moment, he wondered if he was ever going to be truly free of Red John. He supposed in a way, he never would be. Angela and Charlotte would always be with him; he would always remember their loss and it would never fail to haunt him.

But he'd had some idea in the past several years that he was going to be able to break out of these chains. That he would be able to smile without pain around the edges.

He remembered his rambling thoughts from when he and Lisbon had been trapped in Red John's basement. He _could_ be happy now, that was the conclusion he'd come up with.

It was looking more and more impossible at this point in time.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lisbon gingerly touch her ribs. She really had no business being in the field.

"Let's go," he suggested, and she started at the sound of his voice. "I've seen everything I need to."

She gave into his request easily enough, which meant she was in more pain than she was letting on. Damn stubborn woman.

To his relief, she slept for most of the way back, waking only when he was pulling into the parking lot of her apartment. It was late enough that they wouldn't be missed at CBI. Besides, he knew that once she got into the office, she would feel obligated to work, and then he would have to drag her out again.

Really, this was much easier.

He took her arm as she walked to her front door. He had given the SCU team a heads up about their return and they had contacted Lisbon's security detail. There was a cruiser already parked in the lot, and he waved in its general direction.

As soon as they were inside, Lisbon made a beeline for her pain killers.

He watched her open them with a raised eyebrow. "Any particular reason you didn't take those with you?"

She gave him a helpless shrug. "Would you believe me if I told you I thought I might have to drive at some point and didn't want to be under the influence?"

"Knowing you, that's probably close to the truth," he said.

He tossed his jacket over the back of a kitchen chair and took up the spot on her couch he had occupied for much of the evening before. The files they had gotten from Red John's basement were still stacked haphazardly in seemingly random piles, but he definitely had them in a particular order.

Lisbon came to sit next to him, close enough that their shoulders were almost touching. He was glad; he thought he was about to need her strength.

With surprisingly steady hands, he picked up the folder on top of the stack closest to him. The name seemed to be blinking in neon lights. _Jane, Angela._ At least part of this mystery lay with her, he was sure. _Why_ and _what_ were the unanswerable questions.

He brushed his fingers over the card stock almost reverently, then flipped the cover open.

Her driver's license photo was clipped to the first page. It suddenly struck him that he hadn't seen her face, not even in a picture, for ten years. Her lovely blue eyes laughed up at him, forever preserved in time, unaware of what was coming.

Lisbon's hand lightly touched his shoulder, and he realized he had frozen.

He met her eyes – green, not blue – and she started to pull away, misunderstanding. He covered her fingers with his own.

"Don't go anywhere," he said, surprised at the hoarseness of his voice. "Please."

She nodded once, then let her hand drift across his back, tracing lazy patterns against the fabric of his vest.

And in that moment of renewed grief, he was grateful for the solace his own personal guardian angel offered him.

He would need it much more in the days to come.

**AN: This thing is taking on a life of its own again! I'm sorry! **


	9. Chapter 9

**AN**: I haven't gotten around to responding to everyone's reviews for last chapter, but it's coming, I promise! Same goes for the episode tag...you guys are keeping me busy and I love it!

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Chapter Nine**

As he read the notes that were compiled in Angela's file, he felt the too-familiar fog start to drift towards him again. He focused on the feeling of Lisbon's hand on his back, and it anchored him to the present, pushed the mists away.

He forced himself to read the words in front of him, to understand their meaning, to look for connections and clues.

At first glance, nothing jumped out at him. However, on one sheet of paper, her maiden name was underlined. With that in the back of his mind, he re-read the information. There seemed to be an awful lot of information about her past, from before they were even married.

He made note of the fact, then pulled a random file towards him. He recognized the name as one of Red John's more recent victims. A cursory glance told him there wasn't nearly as much information on this particular victim's early life. The focus was definitely on what the woman had been doing at the time of her death.

A cold feeling crept over him, though he wasn't sure why, exactly.

Leaning forward, he found the folder labeled _Ruskin, Daniel._

Lisbon's hand slid from his shoulder, but she stayed close to his side still.

Danny's file was odd in the way that there didn't seem to be anything noteworthy in it. There was a history, yes, but it was so similar to Angela's that Jane didn't know why Red John had bothered to include it in the first place.

Giving up for now, he tossed the folder back on the ground and leaned back into the couch cushions. His emotional exhaustion had manifested itself in slightly shaking fingers and heavy limbs.

Blindly, he groped for Lisbon's hand. Her grip was firm, steadying. Even battered and bruised, she still had strength to spare.

He remembered how he had reached for her after his game in Vegas had fallen apart. Six months of exile, countless bridges burned, and a play that had involved him shooting actual bullets at the woman he loved. After all of that, they still hadn't gotten what they came for.

The disappointment was crushing. However, they had both walked away with their lives (and all their fingers), so in both frustration and relief, he slid his hand down her arm, fingers gently touching the soft skin he found there, and held onto her.

Her thumb brushed over his. "Do you want to order dinner?"

He almost smile. Ever practical, his Teresa. "Sure."

Without ever breaking their connection, she fished her phone out of her blazer and found the number she was looking for. He was hardly listening as she ordered. Truthfully, he didn't feel much like eating at the moment, but it would probably be a decision he would regret shortly.

Sighing, he stretched his legs in front of him. "Would you mind if I used your shower?" he asked.

She looked surprised for a moment, but gave permission instantly.

After digging his stuff out of the SUV, he shut himself in the bathroom, looking around with interest. This was not a place he had spent much time in previously. He noted absently that the products scattered on the small counter ranged from very high end indeed to things Angela wouldn't have let in the house.

He started the hot water, shucking his clothes. The scent of her shampoo wrapped around him, mixed with steam and heat. It was intoxicating. Of course, the image of her standing in this very spot, wet and bare, was probably not something he needed to be thinking of.

_Too late_, his distracted brain chimed.

Distantly, he heard the knock on her door that signaled the arrival of their food, and he forced himself to finish his shower quickly, despite the temptation to stay right where he was, mind spinning elaborate fantasies.

He needed to sleep, he figured, needed to recharge his batteries. Maybe his brain would start working again in the way he needed it to.

Lisbon was waiting in the kitchen for him. She had changed into...yoga pants, he thought they were called, and they did _not_ help his focus.

Good God, he needed to get a hold of himself.

His mind helpfully supplied a dirty response.

With more force than necessary, he flipped open the pizza box on the counter. Lisbon watched him with curious eyes but said nothing.

She turned on the television as they ate, stopping on some sitcom he had never heard of. It was thoughtless, amusing, and he appreciated it after the day they'd had.

After a while, Lisbon stood, taking his empty plate with her as she wandered back into the kitchen. When she returned, she was holding two beers.

"Nothing goes better with pizza," she remarked lightly.

He saluted her with his bottle. "I'm fairly certain you're not supposed to be drinking with your pain killers."

"I'm having one beer, Jane, not setting up tequila shots." She rolled her eyes.

He hid his smile. "Whatever you say, Lisbon, but don't expect me to hold your hair while you're puking."

She took an emphatic drink. "Bite me."

Their night was winding down. Her phone beeped once, and she informed him that Cho was now in the parking lot.

She glanced at him frequently, and he knew she was wondering if was intending to stay. He was, certainly. Until he knew what was going on, he wasn't leaving her alone.

"Go to sleep," he finally told her, noting her drooping eyelids.

"What about you?" she asked, and he heard the tiredness in her voice. Suddenly, he heard the implication in her words, knew what she was really asking, even if she wasn't willing to admit it to herself.

He had intended to look over the files more, to see if he could start putting the pieces together. But Lisbon wanted him with her, and he certainly wasn't going to deny her. Especially not when the haze around his thoughts was looming, just out of sight.

So he smiled, softly, warmly. "Be up soon."

Her answering grin made him feel as though the world would be alright, and he couldn't wait to be wrapped in Saint Teresa's angelic wings.

**XxXxXxXxXxX**

By the time she woke the next morning, Jane was gone. A moment's listening told her he was downstairs, probably sorting through files by the rustling sounds she heard.

She wasn't sure what he was looking for, what he thought he was going to find. Something had caught his eye in his wife's file, but she had no idea what it was.

She wished he was still in bed with her. After the second night in his arms, all she could think about was how to make it happen again.

Every moment had been perfect.

He had murmured sleepily to her in the middle of the night, comforting,when she'd woken unexpectedly. As he slept, he unconsciously pulled her closer. Once, she swore she felt his lips against the top of her head.

In a moment of indulgence, she rolled over to his side of bed, searching for a trace of cologne on the pillow. He smelled sinfully good.

Her ribs protested as she sat up and padded downstairs. She blinked at the sight that greeted her.

Jane was sitting cross-legged on her floor, files spread all around him. His hair was a disaster (if a disaster could ever be termed as "unbelievably sexy"), his shirt was half unbuttoned, and his feet were bare.

He smiled at her as she approached, but she saw the look in his eye. He was on a mission, had an idea that had taken root in his brain.

She perched on the couch after making coffee, watching him. Patrick Jane working was a fascinating thing to see. She would never understand the way his thoughts worked, but it was fun to look, just the same.

"I think I've discovered an alarming trend," he said suddenly, tapping a pile of folders. "These are people who don't have a connection to a specific Red John victim."

She nodded to show her understanding.

"I just found our last victim's name here."

There was a heavy pause. "Wait," she said. "The victim from yesterday? She had a folder already?"

"Yes," he replied. "So that means we can assume Red John left some sort of list for his followers to continue with."

The implications were not good. "I have a file," she said unnecessarily. She was sure Jane knew that, knew what she was getting at. Goosebumps rose on her arms.

His green eyes were suddenly hard, intense. "Nothing is going to happen to you," he promised, words radiating his sincerity.

Their moment was broken by the ringing of his phone. He glanced at the number, frowning, before flipping the device open.

"Hello?" His face didn't relax. "Yes, this is Patrick Jane." Another pause. "What?" he said sharply. "Are you sure?"

One of his hands pushed the wayward strands of hair out of his face. It was not a regular gesture. "And there's no way..." He began a sentence but whoever was on the other end of the line interrupted him. "I see, yes. Well, thank you for calling."

He tossed the phone onto her coffee table and drew in a deep breath.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, already knowing it wasn't.

Jane blinked several times, clearly thinking hard. "That was Sac Memorial," he told her, voice flat, emotionless. "My father was admitted there this morning. Apparently, he's dying."

Her mouth fell open. "Oh, God, Jane. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," he replied, an edge to his voice. "I'm just not sure why he wanted the hospital to call me. He probably thinks I'll come running in there, and it'll be some sort of damn scheme he's pulled. Just like it always was."

She wasn't entirely sure he realized he was saying all of this out loud. His eyes were somewhere far off.

There was an urge to touch him, to offer what comfort she could, but his posture screamed isolation.

"Jane," she whispered softly, fingers curling inward as she fought the need to reach for him. "You should go."

He shook his head. "No, I shouldn't. It doesn't matter, Lisbon. He could have died years ago and I would have never known. It's typical that he's made contact with me just in time for this." He snorted in derision.

His attitude was very worrying, as though his anger was a defense mechanism for the hurt she knew had to be lurking just below the surface. Not for the first time, she wondered what had happened between them to cause so much animosity.

In a moment of clarity, she remembered what Alex Jane had told her, about watching over his son.

He knew he was dying, she realized, and she wanted to believe that he had reached out to his only child to make amends, to try and salvage something from their tattered relationship.

Before she could think of a way to express this, Jane stood, movements very precise. "Are we going to work today?" he asked, and his tone was terrifyingly normal.

"Uh, yes," she replied, surprised and still more than a little distracted. "Give me a little bit."

As she dug through her closet, she felt completely nonplussed. Too much was happening too fast this morning. She had gone from bliss to horror to fierce trepidation. Hopefully the rest of the day was quiet; she wasn't sure her heart could take much more of the current emotional whirlwind.

When she came downstairs, reasonably well put-together, Jane was waiting, now fully dressed and hair looking moderately tamed.

He handed her a travel mug of coffee at the door.

There was a second where the domesticity of the scene did something to her heart. This, this was what she wanted. Only in her dreams, the lines on Jane's face weren't so tightly drawn.

He drove to the office again, a box of files in the back seat.

She holed up in her office, filling out paperwork relating to their time spent under Red John's house and her subsequent hospitalization.

Ambulance rides led to lots of forms.

Jane spread his work out in her office, and she watched him carefully when she thought he wasn't looking. His was still in the same fanatical zone he had been in that morning, but she thought he seemed too tense to ever be comfortable.

He drank four cups of tea before she stopped counting.

Desperately, she wanted to hug him, pull him close and take away some his burdens. He carried so many, constantly.

Every so often, she was distracted from her worry about Jane by the terror she was starting to feel for herself.

She was meant to be a victim. She was on Red John's list.

There was a theory building in her mind, but she didn't have enough proof to substantiate it. Clearly, these recent murders were done by disciples. Over the years, they had learned that the man had many accomplices, but to their knowledge, Red John had been the one doing the actual killing.

It seemed unlikely that he had taken the time to train more than one follower in his precise art of killing. After all, Jane had even admitted that if it wasn't for the smiling faces, he would have been fooled.

Perhaps they were meant to think that they were facing a whole army, when in reality, it was just one person. Red John's right hand solider.

She had a hunch that she was correct, but she had no idea how to prove it.

The rest of the team was hurriedly running background checks on the anomalies in the case files - those people not dead and not connected to a victim. If they could be easily found, the person was getting police protection. She felt sorry for those select few who were off the grid and out of their reach.

They would probably not get a happy ending.

She walked carefully to the break room, looking for more coffee to wash down her painkillers with. Yesterday had been painful enough that she was just going to take the risk and stay regular with her medication. If all else fails, she could get Van Pelt to drive her around.

When she returned, Jane was rapidly sorting through a pile of newspaper clippings. His expression was avid, as though he was on the edge.

She peered over his shoulder. The faded square of newsprint held a picture of a wrecked car, police standing around it looking appropriately solemn.

_Local Woman Killed in Hit and Run_, the headline read.

The date was from some fifteen years ago.

"What's that?" she asked, curious.

"I'm not sure yet," Jane told her. "I just found an entire folder of these. All about this same thing. Can you run this name?" He pointed at the article.

"Annemarie Westcott," she said. "Sure."

Although she wasn't as fast as Grace was with a computer, it wasn't long before she was staring at a police report.

"Annemarie Westcott," she read, "born in Bakersfield, stayed there. Stay at home wife, married to Isaac Westcott for five years." She looked up. "It says she was killed in a hit and run while she was out for a walk one night. They never found the driver."

He frowned thoughtfully. "Did they have a suspect?"

She scanned the report further. "Not really," she said, and then her eyes widened. "Jane," she said slowly, "it says most people believe the driver was a part of the traveling fair that was in town." She kept reading. "They interviewed some guys named Avery Pope, Rick Huron, and..." abruptly, she trailed off.

"And who?" Jane asked.

She met his gaze, and immediately he knew. "Shit," he swore.

"And Daniel Ruskin," she said very softly.

There was a charged silence.

"Shit," he said again. "This happened after Angela and I left," he told her, "though I suppose someone would have told me if Danny had gotten in serious trouble." He laughed humorlessly.

"What could possibly be funny?" she wanted to know. Danny Ruskin was connected to Red John in some strange way, and it seemed desperately important. There was an idea flickering at the back of her mind, something heartbreaking and yet full of absolution. But it just wouldn't come fully yet.

"I should call my father," he said, lips still turned upwards. "He'll be happy I'm going to do what he asked."

The smiled faded, and he suddenly looked vaguely terrified. "It's time to talk to Angela's parents."


	10. Chapter 10

**AN:** Ten? Really? Already?

If this story had a soundtrack, it would be Dark Paradise by Lana Del Ray. Don't even ask me why, but I've listened to it on repeat the entire time I wrote the last two chapters.

Dedicated to the Tumblr fandom. You people are amazing and wonderful and encouraging.

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Chapter Ten**

It turned out to be more difficult than she expected to track down Will and Olivia Ruskin. For one, they hadn't had a permanent address in…well, ever far as she could tell.

Jane was trying to make contact with people he had gone out of his way to avoid for fifteen years or so, and he had found that many bridges had been burned, their ashes still smoking.

Those he did manage to get a hold of were sympathetic about Angela and Charlotte, offering condolences a decade late. They felt bad for him, but in their minds, he was now an outsider, a mark, and it went against their code of ethics to give the Ruskins up.

After every dead end, she would watch Jane closely, waiting for a sign that the inevitable breakdown was looming. There was only so much that one person could take, and Jane was no exception.

He had dealt with almost nothing but guilt and loss for a decade, and then, when the opportunity emerged for him to step back into the light, he had found himself cruelly unable to do so. Before he could recoup from that obstacle, his dying father showed up, they found themselves dealing with one or more copycat killers, there was a potential threat towards her, and he learned his brother-in-law probably had some connection to Red John.

She was more than willing to pick up the pieces, if he was ever willing to let himself shatter. But he would hold on, she knew, until he couldn't hide the cracks any longer.

Despairingly, she wondered if he would be able to keep it in forever. Knowing Jane, it was quite possible.

In the back of her mind, she was incredibly concerned about his reaction when his father died. Quietly, she had contacted the hospital, using her badge to smooth the way. Alex Jane was indeed dying, she learned, of late-stage pancreatic cancer.

However, it wasn't her place to tell Jane of her findings. He knew the truth, even if he wanted to deny it. Any words from her would just make him combative and even more stubborn than he already was. She could only pray that he would come around before it was too late.

Although she wasn't entirely certain about the reason for their rift, she imagined it had something to do with Jane's decision to marry Angela and leave their community of travelling entertainers. Perhaps there was something more, too, something involving Jane's childhood.

But that was all speculation. Jane never talked about his past to that extent. In fact, she was still surprised that the last time they had dealt with Danny, he'd brought her along, introduced her to people. It was almost as if he was scared to show her what his life used to be. And, of course, he was always painfully reluctant to mention his wife.

They were sitting in her living room three evening after Jane had come to the conclusion that he needed to find Angela's parents. She was grateful he was there – the past two nights he had stayed at the office, focused now on the connection he thought was between Danny and Red John.

Although she never liked it very much when she knew he would be wandering the halls of the CBI at all hours of the night, she could admit to herself she especially disliked it this time because she had been somewhat hopeful that Jane would find his way into her bed again.

That was also something they needed to talk about, but it would have to wait. For now, she supposed she could just go with the explanation that they both needed some comfort, and there was no harm or lasting effects from a few nights of shared body heat.

Her heart knew that her mind was lying, but there was nothing she could do about it.

Regardless, when he'd knocked on her door earlier, bag in hand, she'd had to rein in her smile.

Jane had also come armed with more Red John files.

The pile of not-deceased names was looking ominously small. She could see her own folder on top, looking well-thumbed through, and she sincerely hoped it was because Jane had gone through it several times.

On a whim, she searched through the stacks of folders until she found Jane's. The man himself followed her movements.

She met his eyes. "Have you ever looked at this?" she asked, waving the file for emphasis.

He shook his head. "No." His voice was quiet. There was a reason behind his reluctance, she knew, and she thought she could make a guess. He had no desire to be reminded of the choices he'd made that brought his wife and daughter into Red John's focus.

"Do you mind if I do?"

There was a moment where he looked unsure. Then he waved a hand dismissively. "Do whatever you want."

Jane's file looked similar to those she had already seen. Brief background, general information. The notes started getting detailed when Jane started working with the Sac PD as a consultant on the Red John case.

Judging by what she read, the serial killer hadn't taken his abilities seriously right from the start, and had instead, been rather amused by the famous psychic. It was as if he had started compiling research on Jane simply because it had entertained him.

She glanced at the first sheet she'd seen, the one containing Jane's basic personal information. This time around, she noticed that his wife's name was circled. She peered closer. Actually, just her maiden name.

"Jane," she said slowly, and she felt his eyes immediately land on her. "I think you should probably see this."

She handed him the paper, pointing out (probably unnecessarily) what she had noticed.

His brows furrowed as he took the sheet from her. "Anything else strange in there?" he asked finally.

Shrugging, she considered her words. "He didn't seem to be very interested in you in the beginning," she ventured. "He thought you were funny and a little ridiculous. Definitely not a threat, and definitely not someone that he would start playing games with."

The confusion on Jane's face was evident.

"I know what you're thinking," she told him. "Why did he make the effort to show you that he didn't like to be insulted if you didn't matter to him?"

There was another theory blossoming in the back of her mind, but she pushed it away. She wasn't going down that road until she had some proof.

Her phone rang, causing them both to jump.

It was Van Pelt, with some important news indeed. Lisbon listened raptly for a few minutes, asked if the other agent was sure, and then hung up, meeting Jane's vivid gaze.

She decided to blurt out what she had done. "I had a hunch," she told him, "so I asked Van Pelt to see if we couldn't get Isaac Westcott's dental records."

Instantly, Jane knew where the conversation was headed, but the expression on his face told her that he needed to hear the words out loud.

"The records were a perfect match for Red John's."

**XxXxXxXxXxX**

His face felt like it was made of stone, but his thoughts were racing at speeds he had never dealt with.

Isaac Westcott had been Red John. Isaac Westcott, husband of Annemarie, who had been killed in a hit and run accident in which Danny had been a suspect.

What if.

_What if_.

What if Angela and Charlotte had been revenge, not for his clumsy words, but for Danny's actions?

Angela's maiden name had been highlighted in his file. Red John had done so much research into her past, and into Danny's as well.

But it was impossible.

He was well and truly responsible for the death of his family. It had been one of the foundations of his world for the past ten years.

Only an idiot would reject that kind of absolution, but he felt himself clinging to what he had known.

It was only when Lisbon's arms came around him that he realized he was shaking uncontrollably. One of her hands tangled in his hair, and he pressed his face into her neck, listening to the steady beat of her heart, the rhythm of her breathing.

He knew his own grip on her was tight, too tight, but he was utterly unable to pull himself away. When all the rest of the world was crumbling, Lisbon was his anchor. She always had been, and even more so now.

The scent of cinnamon was comforting, settling.

"It's alright," she whispered, over and over. "It's alright."

He wondered if he was having a breakdown. Possibly, he conceded, although he had definitely had ones on a much larger scale in the past.

Of course, he had described that particular time in his life to Lisbon as _a rough patch_. If she knew how rough it had actually been, she would be horrified.

His mind was rambling, and he counted Lisbon's heartbeats to calm himself. He made it to three hundred and twenty two before he felt he could function at a somewhat normal level.

When he pulled back, he was surprised to find that both his face and Lisbon's shoulder were wet. He hadn't even noticed.

"Do you know what this means?" he asked, voice scratchy.

She nodded. "It means, if it's true, that it wasn't your fault," she said quietly.

His jaw twitched. "Not entirely," he replied, a thought occurring to him. "If I had never been stupid enough to consult for the police in the first place, Red John would have never looked into me at all. He would have never found Angela's name." Strange, but the idea that he could hold onto his guilt felt almost _good_.

She took both of his hands. "Patrick Jane," she said, firmly this time. "You're being ridiculous. You saw the amount of research on Danny. It was only a matter of time before he discovered the man had a sister."

"If it's even true," he muttered, echoing her words from earlier.

Deep in his heart, he had a feeling, though, that it _was _true.

He sucked in a deep breath. "That doesn't solve all of our problems," he stated, voice stronger now. "We have the copycat murders to deal with. And the threat towards you."

"True," she admitted, "but this is certainly going to be a helpful step in the right direction."

Uncurling his fingers from Lisbon's, he scrubbed his hands down his face in a gesture of pure exhaustion and frustration.

It was too much, too fast. He had no time to process it. All he wanted to do was curl up somewhere and close his eyes for the next eight hours or so. Maybe the world would make sense then.

Lisbon was still watching him concernedly, and he amended his earlier thought – all he wanted to do was curl up next to _Lisbon_ and close his eyes. Let her warmth soak into him, sink into the softness of her arms.

"Can we go to bed?" he asked, trying to convey with his eyes that all he wanted was rest.

She got the message. "Sure."

In a reversal from the other two nights he had been there, he lay with his head on her chest, her arms around his shoulders, fingers trailing down his back. If he stopped to consider the implications, he would be terrified at how much he needed her in this moment.

Although he didn't think it was possible, he drifted off soon after they went upstairs, thoughts swirling chaotically into nothingness.

The next morning, he woke to his phone ringing.

He felt like he had a hangover, body moving sluggishly, temples throbbing. His mind vehemently protested the loss of Lisbon's warmth as he dug in his jacket pocket for the shrilly ringing device.

"Hello?" he said absently into the microphone. Beside him, Lisbon curled closer, still mostly asleep, and he brushed a hand up and down her back.

"Patrick?" came a voice he hadn't heard in ten years.

The sudden tension in his body alerted Lisbon to the fact that there was a situation, and she sat up, fingers raking through her hair.

"Will," he replied. His words sounded funny to his own ears. He couldn't remember the last conversation he'd had with Angela's father. It was probably at the funerals, he supposed. There were definitely some things he hoped he never remembered.

"I heard a rumor you were looking for us," the other man said. Will's tone was odd, like he wasn't sure what to say in this situation. Of course, if his father was to be believed, Will and Olivia were the ones that wanted to talk to him in the first place.

"I have been," he admitted. "I think there are some things we need to talk about."

"You're right," Will told him. "Is there a time we can meet? Olivia and I are in Sacramento, actually."

They had been looking for him, then. He wondered what the hell they wanted to discuss. And he wondered if they knew anything about the mess Danny was embroiled in. Again.

As they hashed out the particulars, Lisbon's phone rang. He watched her posture straighten as soon as she started talking, and he knew she hadn't been given good news.

He had one guess as to what it was.

By the time his father-in-law had disconnected the call, Lisbon was already in the bathroom getting dressed.

He waited for her impatiently, re-buttoning his shirt, trying to smooth the wrinkles from his slacks. He definitely needed to change before he met Will and Olivia.

Lisbon reappeared in the doorway. Her face told him everything he needed to know.

"Another copycat victim, huh?"

She sighed. "In Oakland, this time. I don't have a name yet."

Her face contorted a little as she shrugged into her blazer. She wasn't being careful enough with her still healing ribs, though he was fairly certain she was at least taking her pain medication on a regular basis.

"We can be there in forty minutes," he noted, but she shook her head.

"You have to meet your in-laws," she said. "I'll go with Van Pelt. She's still in the parking lot."

Jesus. For a moment, he had forgotten all about the threat to Lisbon. He needed to screw his head on straight, needed to stop letting his emotions run wild.

"I can do both," he argued, though he would be cutting it very close indeed.

"Jane," she said softly, but with a note of steel in her tone. "You need to do this. We can handle the crime scene."

To his everlasting shame, he suddenly realized he was terrified to be in the presence of Will and Olivia again. As far as they knew, he was responsible for getting their daughter and granddaughter killed. And now he needed to ask them if instead, their son was to blame for what had happened.

But he needed to know.

He met Lisbon's eyes. They all needed to know.

Impulsively, he cupped a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her forward until their foreheads were touching.

"Promise me you'll be careful," he whispered, searching her gaze.

"I will," she replied. Then, "Call me if you need me, alright?" The words were said shyly.

He nodded, smiling a little. "See you soon." He pressed his lips to her cheek before he left.

The sunlight outside her apartment was almost blinding. He let the warm rays play over his face before unlocking his car.

He could only hope the sun wasn't abruptly overshadowed by the darkness of the day to come.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN:** Crash helmet alert. S'all I'm saying. Fair warning: I cried during this chapter.

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Chapter Eleven**

He met Will and Olivia in a small park not too far from CBI headquarters. Several agents jogged the paved paths over their lunch breaks, Lisbon included. Not that he would admit it, but he was secretly hoping she found her way to him by some miracle and he would be saved from having to endure this conversation alone.

Of course, he knew very well she would be at his side if he would have simply asked. This was really something he should do by himself, however. It still didn't mean that he wanted to.

His in-laws were waiting for him when he arrived.

They looked older than he remembered. Then again, he was sure he had a few more lines on his face, too.

As soon as he was close enough, Olivia wrapped him in a hug. His throat felt suspiciously tight as he returned her embrace. She had passed lovely blue eyes down to her daughter, and it was a shock to look into them again.

If Lisbon had been there, it would have been about the time he would have curled his fingers around hers. As it was, he shoved his hands deep in his pockets after shaking Will's hand.

"It's good to see you," Olivia said, sitting back on the park bench where she'd been perched earlier.

He carefully sat next to her. "You, too," he replied, even though he wasn't at all sure if that was true. "How've you been?"

"We've been well, all things considered," Will answered. There was a note of sadness in his tone. "And yourself? It's our understanding that you've had a busy month."

He smiled, just a little. "That's a pretty accurate statement."

The death of Red John, the re-emergence of his father, whatever was going on with Lisbon, in regards to both the threat towards her and his own relationship with her.

Yes. It had been a busy month.

Swallowing, he forced his next sentence out. "My father said you wanted to see me."

Olivia offered him a small smile before nodding. "We did," she assured him. "It had just been so long, Patrick, and with everything that's happened recently, we supposed that now was a good time."

Will's eyes never left his face. "Is it?" he asked, "A good time?"

Jane shrugged. "That hardly matters at this point. We're both here." He took a deep breath. "How's Danny?"

The look his in-laws gave each other was devastating. They didn't need to answer, but they did anyway.

Will held his jaw firm. "Danny was killed a two years ago," he said. "Car crash," he added succinctly.

He felt his heart sink. "I'm so sorry," he said instantly, and he was. No parent should have to bury their children, and the Ruskins had buried both of theirs.

But still.

He needed to know.

"I'm sorry," he said again, "but do you know if Danny was involved in some sort of hit and run accident about fifteen years ago?"

Again, their expressions told him what he was after before their words did. "Yes," Olivia said, sounding surprised and more than a little wary. "He was interviewed by the police a few times."

"I know this is hard," he told them, "but it's important. Did Danny ever confess to it? Even if it was just to you?"

He saw the emotions in their eyes - their desire to protect their son mixed with the knowledge that he certainly wouldn't be asking if it didn't matter.

Will took a deep breath, seeming to come to a decision. "He was driving," he said, quietly. "He was the one responsible for what happened." He gave a nervous laugh that contained absolutely no humor. "Are you going to have us arrested for aiding and abetting a criminal? Or for withholding evidence?"

"What were we supposed to do?" Olivia asked, tears shining in her eyes. "He was our son. We would have done anything to protect him."

"I know," Jane almost whispered. "It's not something I can fault you for. I've personally done stupid things to protect Danny. And if it was my daughter," he went on, very quiet now, "there's nothing I _wouldn't_ have done."

The Ruskins nodded, accepting his sincerity. He hated the grateful looks on their faces. They had no idea of the consequences of Danny's actions.

"Can we ask why this is all coming up again?" Will asked tentatively.

And suddenly, he knew he would never tell them. It was bad enough thinking that their son-in-law was responsible. It would be worse if they thought their son, their dead son, was actually the one who caused such a horrible chain of events.

Besides, why did it even matter? It didn't, he answered himself, not to them.

He was the only living person that this would directly affect. This would only change _his_ life. Blame or not, the Ruskins still didn't have their children, and nothing would alter that.

"It's a long story," he finally said. "And I can't really talk about it. It's part of an ongoing investigation."

Olivia offered him a small smile. "Do you have any idea how strange it is to hear you talk about the law, Patrick?"

He chuckled lightly at the irony she saw. "A little. It was strange for me, too, in the beginning."

"Do you enjoy what you do?" Will asked with what seemed like innocent curiosity.

"Most days," he told them truthfully. He enjoyed catching criminals who thought they were smarter than him, enjoyed the interaction with the team, enjoyed being with Lisbon, who was rapidly becoming the center point of his universe.

"Patrick," Olivia said slowly, and he knew they were coming to the real reason the Ruskins had wanted to speak with him in the first place. "Have you moved on? Even a little?" Her eyes landed on his wedding ring, and he fought the urge to twist it nervously.

"More than I ever thought I would, at least originally," he admitted. "But no, not really." He wasn't sure of the answers they wanted him to give. Did they want him to always remain faithful to their daughter's memory? Or was there something else they were after?

Will smiled a touch. "What about that young lady I heard in the background this morning when I called?"

This was unbelievably uncomfortable. "That's...complicated," he finally said.

Olivia read the color in his cheeks correctly. "Are you in love with her, Patrick?"

Damn the woman and her ability to reduce him to a twelve year old. "Yes." He held her eyes, reminding himself that she would surely know if he was lying.

"Does she love you?" Her expression was soft, sympathetic.

He took a breath. "Yes," he said, and he could hear the certainty in his own words. The force of her love was something he had never doubted. No matter what he did, she would always have his back, would always _take_ him back.

She smiled. "So what's so complicated about that?"

He almost snorted. "You have no idea."

Olivia reached forward and touched his hand. Her fingers tapped his ring. "Ang was the first woman you loved, wasn't she?"

His lips turned up in sweet remembrance. "Absolutely. She was the only woman that wouldn't put up with any of my shit, and it drove me crazy. At least, until I realized how I felt. Then she drove me crazy in an entirely different manner."

"It's time to let her go, Patrick," she said, very softly.

He ran a hand down his face. How could be explain to Olivia that it wasn't just Angela he couldn't let go of? It was _everything_ - his guilt, the unending grief, the loneliness. They had been a part of his life for so long, and now that Red John was dead, everyone just expected him to be fine. They expected better than fine, actually. They wanted rainbows and puppies and people shoving flowers in their ears.

"I'm trying," he settled for saying.

"What Liv and I came to say," Will said, looking very serious, "was that we want you to be happy. We want you to _live_, Patrick, and live well."

He felt tears prick in the back of his eyes. This was all utterly unexpected. It forced his still raw emotions to the surface, made them bubble over. He fought for control. "I think I might have forgotten how," he whispered.

The older man had nothing but sympathy and compassion in his eyes. "You just do," he said.

The conversation drifted away from the mess his personal life was after that. He was sure Will and Olivia could see how close he was to his breaking point. They had always been better parents than his own father.

It surprised him, how much he wanted Lisbon now. It had been a rough morning, coming on the heels of a rough night before that, and he kept thinking that if he could only stand close enough to feel her body heat that he would feel better.

Almost as if she knew he was thinking of her, his phone buzzed.

_Everything going okay?_

He took a moment to reply.

_Strangely, yes. Call you soon._

Hearing her voice wouldn't be as soothing as actually seeing her, but it was a start.

He left not long after that, still feeling like he was a raw mass of tangled emotions. He felt distinctly fragile, like one more bump in the road would cause him to crack into a million pieces.

Before he had even called Lisbon, his phone rang. He thought the number looked vaguely familiar.

"Mr. Jane?" the voice on the other end said. "This is Anna at Sac Memorial Hospital."

He swore mentally. "What can I do for you, Anna?" he asked, voice light. Regardless, his heart was sinking.

"I just spoke with your father's doctor, and he's of the opinion that you should probably come down here. Now," she added, as though he had missed her meaning.

With no idea of what was compelling him to do this, he made an illegal U-turn and started in the other direction. Three weeks ago, he wouldn't have given a damn about Alex Jane dying alone. However, his world was fraying around the edges, and he was making decisions that made no sense.

He held down the "1" on his keypad, waiting for the speed-dial feature to activate. Lisbon answered on the second ring.

"Hey," she said, and he knew she had been waiting for his call.

"Hey, yourself," he replied distractedly. "I'm not going to the crime scene."

"Is everything okay?" she asked, concern coloring her tone.

He swallowed convulsively. "It's my father," he said. "Apparently, we've reached the end. I'm on my way to the hospital."

"Oh, Jane, I'm so sorry," she breathed, and he knew what her face looked like. "Do you want me to come down?"

"Ah, no," he told her. "There's no point in that." And there wasn't as much as he would have liked her to be there, would have liked to be able to lean on her. But he had been doing too much of that lately. He took another deep breath. "I'll call you later," he promised. "Be careful."

"If you need anything, anything at all," she started, but he cut her off.

"I'll let you know." He hoped she'd hear in his voice that he was attempting to smile.

Sacramento Memorial Hospital looked identical to every other hospital he had ever been in. Molded plastic chairs, ugly industrial tile, ridiculous artwork on the walls, the whole place smelling vaguely of sterility and death.

He walked slowly past the first set of elevators, the second, before stopping at the third, pressing the up button. It seemed to take a lifetime to reach the seventh floor.

A helpful nurse pointed him in the right direction, and he tamped down his rising and unexpected panic when he reached the correct room number.

Alex was sleeping when he pushed open the door, and so he could take a moment to absorb the scene. His father looked awful, gaunt cheekbones and sallow skin. Of course, Jane reminded himself, he was at death's door.

He wondered how he had missed this the first time he'd seen his father. He supposed he simply hadn't been looking. Then again, it wasn't as if he'd any frame of reference.

Quietly, he pulled a chair up to the bedside.

He did have some good memories of his father. Endless rides on ferris wheels, stuffed full of cotton candy and popcorn. Nights as a small boy when Alex had rocked him through colds and thunderstorms.

These thoughts were what he was choosing to hold on to, at least in this moment. He didn't think he had any energy left to be cynical and bitter.

"Patrick," came a croaking voice from the bed. "I'm surprised you came."

He managed a small, unhappy smile. "Not as surprised as I am."

"I won't make you wait long," his father said.

"Take your time," Jane almost whispered, throat tight. Then, "Did you really just want to see me?" he asked, hating how childish he sounded.

"Is that such a strange idea?" Alex smirked. "I've made a great many mistakes, Patrick, and I think I had some idea about setting a few of them right." He coughed, and it sounded like a death rattle.

"Some things you just can't fix," he said, echoing words he'd said to Lisbon years ago. He wondered why he had said it in the first place. Clearly, this was not a time for arguing.

"You think I don't know that? I've lived a long time, Patty. I know plenty about regret."

Was it just him, or did the rise and fall of Alex's chest seem to be getting shallower? The sound of his breath was definitely more labored.

"You turned out to be a good man," his father said, "despite my better efforts."

Only Alex Jane could make that into an insult, but he could hear the affection behind it.

"You would have loved Charlotte," he said, apropos of nothing. The words just seemed to burst from his chest.

His father's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "I know it. I bet she was an angel."

It was difficult to swallow. "She was," he whispered.

"Maybe I'll meet her now," Alex murmured, and Jane knew they were almost out of time. He couldn't help the tear that slid down his face.

"Maybe," he choked out.

"Find someone that makes you happy," the older man wheezed. "Make sure you don't die alone, like me."

Without thinking, he reached for his father's hand, ignoring how thin his fingers were. "You're not alone."

A faint smile touched Alex's face. "No, I guess I'm not."

**XxXxXxX**

Three hours later, he knocked on Lisbon's door. When it opened, and she took in his appearance, her expression was shocked.

In all honestly, he had no idea what he looked like.

He had spent the last few hours driving aimlessly around the city, sometimes fighting the tears, sometimes not even bothering.

Twice today, he had been told to move on with his life, by people he had truly never expected to see again. Like it was just that easy.

"Oh, my God," she whispered, "Are you alright?"

She all but pulled him inside, closing the door behind them.

He dimly noted that his hair and shirt were wet. It was raining. He hadn't even noticed.

Carefully, she touched his face, fingers sliding slightly on the moisture she found there. He knew she was wondering if it was rain or tears.

"Jane?" she asked, eyes focused on his. "Talk to me."

_Find someone that makes you happy,_ his father had said.

_You just do_, Will had told him when he'd admitted to not knowing how to live well.

Throwing caution and rational thought out the window, he wrapped his fingers around Lisbon's upper arms, forcing her backward until she was stopped by her living room wall.

She was startled, but not afraid.

Releasing her arms, he framed her face in his hands. He gave her just an instant to pull back, his intentions written all over his face.

And then, in one sure motion, he leaned forward and kissed her.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN**: Oh, come on. You didn't think I'd make it that easy, did you?

Buckle up, and keep your helmets on. I'm not kidding.

And whoever told me "Storm" by Lifehouse was a good song for this story - It was definitely on my Rebuilding the Sun playlist from the very beginning.

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Chapter Twelve**

His mouth was hot, demanding. Before she consciously thought to do it, she had wound her arms around his shoulders, fingers toying with the curls at the nape of his neck.

She could feel the heat from his body through his damp clothes. His belt was digging into her hip. His hands fell from her face to wrap around her waist.

She had spent many hours wondering what this moment would be like, but the reality had already far exceeded her expectations.

When his tongue touched hers, her mind went completely blank, and she moaned in her throat. Jane released her mouth to trail wet, scorching kisses across her jaw, down her neck, until she forcibly tugged his lips back to hers.

He made an indistinct sound - she thought of it as sort of an "if you insist" noise. Yes, yes she did insist.

He pressed one of his palms flat against her heart for a brief instant before moving it to cover her breast. When his fingers squeezed softly, she knew she had to stop him. Any longer, and she would lose the power to remember why this was a bad idea.

"Jane," she breathed, dragging her mouth away from his. "What are we doing?"

"I would have thought that was obvious," he whispered hotly back. "What does it _look_ like we're doing?"

His outrageously agile fingers undid the top button of her blouse, and she had to remind herself again that this was not how she wanted her first time with him to be - full of desperate emotion. And possibly against a wall.

He pressed himself further against her, and when she felt how much he wanted this, wanted _her_, she briefly gave in, kissing him for all she was worth. She had a sudden, intense urge to touch him, to feel how he would react under her hand.

Then two more of her buttons fell away, and she pressed firmly against his shoulders.

His green eyes were dizzyingly intense, and she concentrated on keeping her focus. She pushed his tumbling hair out of his face. "Tell me what happened today."

He pressed a kiss to her palm.

"Haven't you heard?" he asked, and the slight edge in his voice told her that she had been right to stop this. "I'm absolved from my sins. I'm getting on with my life, just like everyone keeps telling me to do."

His breathing was ragged; she could see his pulse thundering in the base of his neck.

"Like everyone keeps telling you to do?" she repeated. "What about what you want to do?"

He shook his head slightly, hands resting on her hips. "That's a hell of a question, Lisbon. I don't have a damn idea." His smile was self-deprecating. "I _was_ sort of enjoying what we were doing, however."

Her fingers flattened themselves against his chest. "Not like this," she said. "As much as I want you- and you know I do, so don't act like that's new information - I don't want there to be regrets in the morning."

His eyes softened, and he pulled her carefully against him. She rested her head on his shoulder, lips almost touching his neck. "Don't ever think," he whispered, "even for a second, that I would ever regret being with you." One of his hands ran through her hair.

"But I might regret the reasons behind it," she murmured. "I don't want this to be about comfort, or because someone told you that this was a step you should take."

He kissed the crown of her head. "Alright," he breathed. There was a pause. "Then can we go to bed? I know it's early, but I've had an outrageously exhausting day, and I'm pretty sure you're not going to let me sleep until I tell you about it."

She smiled, then shyly leaned up to press her lips to the corner of his mouth. "You're right," she told him. "You definitely aren't going to sleep without explaining a few things."

While she waited for him to take a shower, she crawled into bed, mind still whirling around. They hadn't even discussed their most recent case, or Danny Ruskin, or his father, and yet, she already felt emotionally drained.

Her brain helpfully reminded her that she was the one who had chosen to put a stop to what Jane had started. She could be happily not thinking at this very moment, arms and legs wrapped around him, hands sliding down his back as he finally made her his.

She pulled a pillow over her face. Maybe she'd stop thinking about it if she smothered herself. It seemed doubtful, however.

Jane came into the bedroom wearing pajama pants and a plain white t-shirt. It was so unexpected that she stared. He chuckled at her expression. "I do own articles of clothing that aren't three piece suits," he told her.

With a grateful sigh, he settled into bed beside her, her back against his chest.

It was silent for perhaps thirty seconds. Then, "Well," she said, but gently. "Out with it."

As he spoke, she laced their fingers together. She listened attentively as he talked through the meeting with Angela's parents, the revelation that Danny had died years before, and the confirmation that he was responsible for the death of Annemarie Westcott.

"Is is a relief?" she asked once, fingers unconsciously touching his wedding ring. "To know it wasn't because of you?"

She felt him sigh against the back of her neck. "Not as much as I thought it would be. Guilt is a hard thing to let go of, Lisbon."

When he started telling her about his father, she could feel the tension in his frame, the tight grip he was exercising on his emotions. After his story ended, she gave him a few minutes to compose himself before she rolled so they were facing.

"I'm glad you went," she told him, touching his cheek.

"Surprisingly, I am, too," he admitted, subtly nuzzling into her hand. "It was...harder than I thought it would be."

"Of course it was," she said softly. "He was your father." She brushed her thumb lightly over his lips, still wondering a little at the events that had given her the right to touch him, if only for now. "What next? Have you thought about funeral arrangements?"

He blinked, and she knew he hadn't. "I suppose I should do something," he quietly said. "Will you help?"

Her heart contracted. "Of course," she replied. The sadness in his eyes was painful, and she took a moment to be supremely glad that he was with her instead of God knows where.

"So," he said, after a beat. "Tell me about our new case."

She shrugged. "Looks very similar to all the other copycats. Slight variation on the smiley face, but absolute replication with the cutting pattern."

"This thing has to come to a head sometime soon," he said, like he was thinking out loud. "So many victims in such a sort amount of time...this can't go on for much longer."

"Jane," she said slowly, "I have a feeling that this might be the same person."

He shifted, draping one leg over both of hers. "I think you might be right. If the knife work hadn't been so very precise, I would be skeptical, but I doubt there's a whole army of minions who can copy that so exactly."

"That's a little bit of a relief, I suppose," she mused. "I'd much rather deal with one psycho than an unknown number of psychos."

"True enough," Jane concurred. "Maybe we'll have something to work with in the morning."

She made a noncommittal sound, arm going around his waist. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Lisbon?" he murmured.

"Hmm?" It seemed like a lot of work to open her eyes.

"Just so you know, when I figure out how to get on with my life, you're the one I want to move on with." His words were soft, tender.

She smiled into his chest. "I know," she told him. "But for now, this is enough."

His lips moved against her hair, almost like he was speaking, but if he said anything, the words were lost to her. She was drifting away, lulled to sleep by his warmth, the weight of his arms around her, and the knowledge that he still came back to her.

**XxXxXxXxXxX**

He woke the following morning, still convinced he could taste her kiss on his lips. Definitely not an unpleasant thing.

As much as he hated to admit it, Lisbon had been right to stop their...activities the night before. She deserved better than that from him, especially for their first time.

It had still been the most tempting thing he'd faced in a decade. Her soft skin under his fingertips, her hands in his hair.

But there was definitely something to be said about waking up beside her._ Before_, he had always been somewhat of a cuddler, and now he had the opportunity to indulge himself again.

He had told her last night that when he could move on, he intended to move on with her. Although her answer had been short and a little amused, it told him everything he needed. She understood what he was going through, and she would be waiting for him when he came out on the other side.

At this point, he refused to think that there wasn't an _other side_. He wanted a life with her, he wanted a future, and his own mind wasn't going to stand in the way.

He slid out of bed before she woke up, starting her coffee before perching the tea kettle on the stove. Peering out of the window, he saw a CBI vehicle still parked in the corner of the lot.

He wondered what the rest of the team was making of all the time he was spending here. Grace was silently cheering them on, in her eternally romantic way. Cho, he was sure, saw what was happening. And Rigsby…well, he probably wouldn't notice anything unless they made out in front of him.

The idea had its merits, he had to admit.

By the time Lisbon joined him downstairs, her coffee was done brewing. Shooting him a grateful look, she poured herself a cup and settled next to him at her tiny table.

They sat in silence. Once, he saw her eyes flick to the wall behind his shoulder, and her cheeks colored. He hid his smile.

"How are your ribs?" he asked, realizing shamefully he hadn't kept very close tabs on her physical condition in the past few days.

She shrugged. "Getting better."

He wondered if he had personally caused her any pain due to his...exertions the night before. But he knew she would never tell him if that was the case.

Lisbon sighed absently. "I hope you're right about this being over soon," she said. "I hate to think of the team giving up their nights to sit in my parking lot. I'm sure it's not particularly comfortable."

"I can't imagine that I'm wrong," he told her, letting a touch of arrogance color his tone. "Regardless, I don't think they mind. Keeping you safe is their priority, and that's worth much more than sleep."

She still looked troubled, and he reached across the tabletop to squeeze her fingers lightly. "Stop thinking about it," he advised.

Forty minutes later, they were dressed and on their way to work. She insisted on driving herself, saying that her constant reliance on his vehicle was giving her an ulcer. He figured she probably missed having access to the small arsenal that was in her car. In point of fact, he was actually a little surprised that she didn't sleep with a loaded gun under her pillow, too. It would have been cliche, but not altogether unexpected.

He beat Lisbon to headquarters, running through a yellow light just because he knew it would annoy her. Besides, Sacramento traffic was a nightmarish as anywhere in the morning, and there was no point in sitting at the front of the line when he didn't have to.

His phone buzzed when he reached the parking lot.

_Stopped for gas_, Lisbon's text read. _Stop violating traffic laws._

He smiled, then went upstairs.

A half hour later, however, he had started to get a little twitchy. He called her, sense of disquiet increasing when her phone went directly to voicemail. He tried again, just in case there had been some sort of glitch in the cell system. It still wasn't ringing through.

He talked to Cho, who had been in her parking lot, who confirmed that Lisbon had pulled into a gas station halfway between her apartment and the office.

With incredibly forced patience, he waited for ten more minutes. When his self-imposed deadline had been reached, he proceeded to panic in a very methodical manner.

He and Cho all but ran for the parking garage, hoping their worst fears weren't about to be realized.

The gas station attendant remembered Lisbon by sight, but couldn't tell them anything else worth noting. A combination of Cho flashing his badge and the agent's stoic gaze got them a look at the security footage. From what they could see, there was nothing amiss.

Lisbon pumped her gas, then came inside to pay and refill her travel mug. She had smiled at the cashier. Jane watch, heart in his throat, as she got back in her car and drove away.

He rewound the footage, this time paying attention to the background. Upon closer inspection, he saw a figure hanging around, not quite in range of the cameras. There was something familiar about the walk, the blurred profile, but he couldn't put his finger on it just yet.

"There," he said, pointing out the person. "They're being very careful to stay out of direct sight of the security cameras."

Cho nodded, pulling out his phone.

Back at headquarters, Grace had no news, and so Cho made the decision to officially make this an investigation. Rigsby would come get the security footage, and they would go from there.

In the meantime, Cho ordered a BOLO for Lisbon's car. Jane scanned the buildings around them, hoping he could spot security cameras on some of them that would give them a better look. There was a bank to their left that seemed like a good bet, but it wasn't due to open for another hour.

Unable to sit and wait, he had gone back to the office with Cho, obsessively scanning and rescanning the security footage.

His mind was focused entirely on the problem at hand, unwilling to think about what could possibly be happening to Lisbon. Every time he heard the elevator arrive at their floor, he would look up expectantly, hoping against hope that they were all overreacting.

Around noon, the call came in.

Lisbon's car had been found.

Jane stared at the abandoned black Chevy, parked in an area of the city it had no business being in. The hubcaps had already been stripped from it.

And on the review mirror, straight of his worst nightmares, the red painted face leered at him. There were no variations this time. It was the same image that had haunted him for a decade.

_Not again_, was his only thought. This _could not_ be happening again.

But all the wishing in the world wouldn't change what was in front of him.

He was too late.

She was gone.

And he had no idea if he could get her back.


	13. Chapter 13

**AN**: THANK YOU to everyone who has congratulated be or wished me well, both on here and on Tumblr. You are all wonderful people, and TM has a wonderful fandom. Love you guys!

The crash helmet alert has been extended to Chapter Thirteen as well. Please keep your hands and legs inside the vehicle, and enjoy the ride!

Massive thank yous to those of who who have anonymously reviewed this - I'd love for you guys to get an account so I can thank you personally! *hint*

Now...away we go...

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Chapter Thirteen**

By some miracle, he managed to hold on to his sanity. He could feel madness lurking in the back of his mind, its numb void of blackness beckoning. But he couldn't give in, not yet.

They hadn't found her body. Logically, that meant whoever took her didn't intend to kill her immediately, or they would have done so already. And until he knew for certain that until he touched her cold skin and listened for a pulse that would never be there again, he would fight on.

There was no evidence in the car, none at all. He hadn't expected there to be, but it was still a bitter disappointment. He kept hoping that this apprentice of Red John's wasn't as skilled, wasn't as careful.

And perhaps he wasn't - not in every aspect. There would be a chink in the armor somewhere, something that would lead them to Lisbon. He had to believe that.

There weren't any other options.

He was sitting in Lisbon's office, every file he had on the copycat victims spread out on the table in the corner. Part of him knew he should be out with the team, in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the bullpen, but he was desperate for the quiet. Noise was distracting, even to him when he was under this much stress, and he needed to keep his attention focused.

For the fifteenth time, at least, he flipped through Lisbon's file. He was looking for a reason why. If Red John had decided she was a threat, a danger, he'd had a decade to act on the idea. There was no sense in waiting until now.

He also thought that if Red John's purpose would have simply been killing the woman he loved, he had ample opportunity to do that as well. After Las Vegas, even a blind person would have been able to see that. Lisbon wasn't to be sacrificed, not at any cost.

On his left, Lisbon's laptop sat open. He had played and replayed the security footage from the gas station over and over again. It was beyond frustrating - the knowledge that he couldn't place the figure moving in such a familiar manner at the corner of the screen. It had been years since his mind had failed him this badly.

How had things gone so wrong in such a short amount of time? Last night, he had been a breath away from making love to her. And now...now he felt like he was a breath away from finding her lifeless body.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, took a sip of long-cold tea, and grimaced.

At that moment, Cho stuck his head in the door. He was leading the investigation, and Jane had no doubts about his capability. Cho also seemed to understand Jane's sudden, frantic need for solitude, and he hadn't pushed.

He was waving what looked to be a computer disc. "Security footage we pulled from the bank across the street from the gas station," he said. "Figured you'd want to be the first to see it."

Jane gratefully took the disc from the other man. "I'll give it back to you guys if I can't find anything useful."

The door closed softly behind Cho, and Jane practically rammed the plastic circle into the computer. A few minutes later, the slightly grainy images from the security footage began to play across the screen.

The figure he had seen in the original footage was clearly visible now. However, Jane was unable to see his face - obviously, the man knew there was another camera behind him, and was reacting accordingly.

Damn him, anyway, Jane thought vaguely, eyes still never leaving the screen.

That didn't mean he wasn't going to leave any clues, however.

Attention rapt, he watched as Lisbon became visible on the screen, dark hair blowing around her face as she pumped her gas. A few minutes later, she drove off, still fine.

Assuming he got her back, she wasn't going to be allowed to go anywhere by herself ever again.

The video ended without him being able to see what had actually happened to Lisbon, but he queued the footage back anyway.

Carefully, methodically, he made a note of all the vehicles he saw in the footage. He then called the officers on the scene and checked with them. Any car that was still there became immediately suspect. A few they were able to write off instantly - gas station employees and the like.

Most of the other cars weren't there, but the officers took note of the plate numbers Jane provided them in case they turned out to be witnesses.

There was one other car that was visible from the bank footage, though just barely. He had focused in on it almost from the beginning, wondering. If someone had miscalculated how far a security camera swiveled, even just slightly, they would have assumed that the vehicle would have been completely hidden.

The plates were blurry, and so he had gotten as far as he could by himself.

"Grace!" he called, standing up for what seemed like the first time in years. "I need your help."

The redhead rushed in, looking concerned. "What's going on?"

He gestured at the computer screen. "I need to see the plate numbers on that car. Can you fix it? Sharpen them or enhance them or whatever it is you do?"

As always, she smiled a little at his total lack of technological know-how before sitting in the seat he had just vacated. A few quick taps on the keyboard, and he was looking at a perfectly clear image of a California license plate.

Feeling like something had finally gone right, he took a second to thank Grace. "You truly are a queen among women," he told her.

She rolled her eyes, then ignored his comments. "Do you think you have something?"

His mouth pressed into a thin line. "I might," he admitted. "I'm just not sure yet."

"Want me to run the plates?" she asked, and he felt like an idiot for not asking her in the first place.

He nodded, sitting next to her, watching in mild fascination as she pulled up the DOT registry for the state and entered the numbers she'd scribbled down.

The screen told him the system was searching for a match.

He tapped his fingers on the table impatiently, though he knew the noise was probably irritating.

Grace said nothing, just waited.

A small beep told them the search had been completed.

He saw the name on the screen. Read it again. Flicked his eyes to Grace to see if he really had seen it.

The expression on her face told him that she remembered the name, remembered the reason why it was important.

So he hadn't been imaging it. His mind wasn't playing tricks on him. He suddenly knew who the figure in the security footage was.

Even if it was supposed to be impossible.

**XxXxXxXxXxX**

It was cold, it was dark, and her ribs hurt. Those were the first three thoughts that came to her mind as she regained consciousness.

The third thought was the one that seemed to matter the most at this particular moment. She had been healing, but she had also been taking it easy. Whatever had happened to her had not helped her already wounded body.

Slowly, letting her cop instincts take over, she started trying to take in her surroundings. Her hands were bound behind her back with what felt like zip-ties. The floor was made of wooden planks that felt dusty and aged. She squinted through the darkness. The walls were wood, too.

A cabin, maybe? A hunting blind? Some creepy box that a serial killer had built to keep his soon-to-be-victims in?

She couldn't hear anything, nothing to give her any clues as to where she was.

A cursory examination of the small space she was confined to told her there was absolutely nothing else in the room with her. Her fingers touched hinges once, and she shoved her shoulder against what she hoped was the exit, but it did absolutely nothing, except for adding to the discomfort in her ribs.

Conceding defeat for the time being, she settled herself against the back wall and tried to remember how, exactly, she had wound up here in the first place.

She had stopped for gas after noting that she was well-below a quarter of a tank. In all honesty, she had meant to fill up days ago, but due to the strange turns her life was currently taking, she had forgotten about it. She'd been using a CBI vehicle or Jane's car for the past several days.

Jane.

She hoped he wasn't having some sort of breakdown. His mind could be a frightening thing at the best of times, and she imagined it was at terrible place to be when he was unhappy. She took a second to pray that he was fighting off the haze he'd admitted to living in since Red John had been killed.

_Please_, she thought. _Let him stay with me for this._

If she had ever needed him before, it was nothing compared to how she needed him now.

Her heart hoped she wasn't going to regret stopping Jane last night, hoped she wasn't going to die without knowing what it was like to lie beneath him, fingers digging into his skin, listening to his stuttering breaths and feeling his rapid heartbeat.

In a moment of despair, she remembered that at least she knew what it felt like to wake up with him, what his kisses tasted like.

Damn her and her choices.

She fought off irrational tears. Crying would get her nowhere, and she wouldn't even be able to wipe her tears if they fell.

Emphatically, she clenched her jaw, and gradually the burning sensation faded from her eyes. She would be strong. She would not give into the panic that was building in her throat.

_Think,_ she mentally yelled. _Think._

The gas station had been totally normal. She had filled up her tank and started the ignition, like normal.

Her phone rang then, and she had answered without looking at the number.

"Agent Lisbon," came a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. "This is Officer Stephenson from the SacPD. I just got off the phone with your office. We're formally requesting your help on a case."

She'd sighed. They really did have enough on their plates right now without getting involved with the local police, but she supposed it was their job. "Are you at the scene?" she'd asked, wondering if it would be faster if she simply drove herself.

Officer Stephenson had given her an address that was forty minutes away from CBI headquarters. Deciding on the spot that she would simply take her own car there, she'd turned around. "Agent...VanPelt, I think, said she would touch base with the rest of the team," Stephenson said.

The directions her GPS rattled off took her to an alley in a neighborhood she wasn't particularly familiar with, but the bars on all the windows and doors told a story by themselves. She was pretty sure she caught the end of a drug deal as well, but that wasn't something she was going to deal with at the moment.

The building Stephenson had directed her to was as rundown as everything else in sight - broken windows, boarded up doors, a few stray bullet holes here and there.

She had no trouble believing a crime could be committed here.

Wondering where the hell the yellow tape and uniformed officers were, she ducked into the nearest entrance, flashlight out. She had learned from her little foray into Red John's lair that it was definitely a good idea to keep a source of light close by at all times.

"Hello?" she'd called out, peering through the manufactured darkness.

The building was totally silent, but she had a sudden, eerie feeling, as though someone was there with her.

She'd shaken it off, reminding herself that someone had damn well _better_ be in there with her. It was a crime scene, after all.

From somewhere ahead of her, she heard a slamming noise, and she started forward, unholstering her gun.

In her haste, she never heard the footsteps behind her. She felt the first blow across the back of her head, but held onto consciousness. Stars exploded behind her eyes, and she hit the dirty floor, pain shooting through her ribs.

An unholy sense of deja vu assailed her.

She saw a man clad entirely in black standing over her for a second. His profile was vaguely familiar, but her vision was so blurred around the edges that she couldn't make him out clearly. There was a dull glint of metal in his hand, and she remembered wondering if this was how it all ended - on the floor of an abandoned warehouse, on her back, utterly defenseless.

Almost absently, she watched the man raise his arm. He swung down sharply, and the second blow sent her into darkness.

Back in the present, she let out a deep breath. Well, at least she knew what had happened. That was something.

She focused on the man's profile from her memory. She would bet money on the fact that she had seen him before. But his face had been too indistinct for her to place him.

In the distance, she heard approaching footsteps, and she steeled herself. From somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought she heard Jane's voice, telling her what to do next.

_He's just a disciple, a puppet,_ Jane would say. _Remember that. He's not Red John._

There was something comforting about that - she wasn't dealing with evil incarnate this time, but someone who had become blinded by the glamor of what Red John had said, what he had stood for.

That meant, she hoped, that there was a chance she could reason her way out of this, if she was very, very clever.

She hoped.

There was the sound of a lock being turned, and she was suddenly blinded by the light that was streaming in from the open door.

When her eyes adjusted, she focused on the unmasked face of the man in front of her.

Her dropped almost comically.

"_You_," she hissed.

"Me," he said calmly. "I bet not even the Boy Wonder saw that coming, did he?"

And she stared as Danny Ruskin smirked at her.


	14. Chapter 14

**AN:** Argh, some of you called Danny! I'm sort of disappointed! I guess I can't fool all of you!

And I am attempting to get this done before Sunday, so I can devote all of my time to freaking out over that episode. Wish me luck!

Apologies for not responding individually to your reviews! You guys are all awesome, but I have about five minutes to get this posted or it won't get done today! Sorry! But please know that I love and appreciate all of you!

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Chapter Fourteen**

It took her a few, precious moments to regain her composure. When she did, she found her voice almost immediately, still hearing Jane echoing in her mind.

"I suppose you know you're supposed to be dead." She aimed for calm, casual, but was fairly certain she failed.

Danny kept smiling at her. "That was the idea," he said. "People don't look for you when you're dead."

_Keep him talking_, she thought. That was always the protocol when you were held hostage. _Establish a connection, humanize yourself_. However, she wasn't sure the usual rules could apply in this situation.

She tried to keep her breathing normal. "I imagine you have a pretty good story to tell."

Danny's grin took on a psychotic air. "Like you wouldn't believe."

He was right - she probably wouldn't believe it. How the hell had he gone from being the reason for Red John murdering his sister and his niece to a disciple, carrying out his set lists of grizzly tasks? And how long had he been working for a serial killer? Since before the first time she had met him? God, and she had let him walk away.

She cleared her throat. "I'd be very interested in hearing it, Danny," she said, deliberately using his name. "I admit, I have more than a few questions."

"I'm sure you do, Agent Lisbon," he said, taking a step forward. Instinctively, she retreated half a pace. Danny noted the gesture, but made no comment on it. "All will be revealed in good time," he assured her, "but not now. I just wanted to see if you'd woken up."

For the first time, she noted the gun in his hand. She pushed her ideas of escape to the side, at least for the moment. Besides, she wasn't sure if her legs would even carry her very far. Maybe if she had a little bit more time to recover, it would be a different story. All she needed was a little time.

"What's the plan, Danny?" she asked, still keeping her voice even.

He laughed, and the noise send shivers down her spine. "That's not something you get to know. But you're going to be playing a very important part, I promise."

The look in his eyes was terrifying.

"We'll have some time to talk soon," he continued. He pulled a bottle of water from his jacket pocket and sat it on the floor in front of her. "Drink up," he advised. "Dehydration is a nasty thing, and I definitely want you alive and kicking."

Abruptly, he reached for her, and she gasped as he sliced through the ties around her wrists. In another moment, he had rebound them in front of her body.

With one more frightening smile, he shut the door, and the light disappeared.

Fingers now trembling, she searched for the bottle of water on the floor. It was a little difficult, but she managed to twist the top off and take a long, grateful drink.

The good news was that Danny didn't appear to be intending to kill her, at least in the immediate future.

The bad news was that he was definitely bat-shit crazy, and there was no way she could really trust anything he said.

Carefully, she leaned back against the wall and stretched her legs in front of her.

This was starting to sound a lot like what had happened with Lorelei - Red John had made her a victim, someone easy to manipulate. She wondered if the same thing had happened here.

She frowned.

It was odd, though - Red John had definitely killed Angela and Charlotte for revenge. Had what happened with Danny just been an unexpected side effect? Danny was definitely enough of a sociopath for Red John's words to ring true.

The pain in her head was growing, and she concentrated on her breathing, trying to push the ache away, trying to send it somewhere else. She had heard Jane talk various people through the process enough times that she thought she had a decent grasp on how it worked.

Of course, those other people had the benefit of holding onto Jane, of having somewhere tangible to send their pain.

God, what she wouldn't give.

Eyes closed against the useless darkness, she tried to use her imagination. It was a poor substitute, but after a few attempts, she thought she did feel a bit better. However, she thought that perhaps she was focusing less on banishing her pain and more on what it would be like to be in Jane's arms.

She sighed. Whatever worked, she supposed.

When Danny came back, if he gave her enough time to calm her frazzled emotions, maybe she had a shot at escaping. If he thought she was going to play along with his twisted game then he didn't know a thing about her.

Until her last breath, she would fight.

She could only hope it would be enough.

**XxXxXxXxX**

Will Ruskin didn't answer the first four times Jane tried calling him. Beyond frustrated, he had Grace track the number.

He wasn't sure if they knew anything. Hell, if he had to guess, he would say that no, they truly thought their son was dead. It was difficult to fake that sort of grief. He would know.

But that didn't mean they had no useful information.

Danny's picture was plastered all over the news, along with Lisbon's. He knew she hated the picture she had on file, and the thought of her disdainful sneer made him smile just a little.

Tips were coming in from all over the state. From experience, he knew most of them would be utter dead ends. Well-meaning citizens, thinking they saw fugitives around every corner.

Just as he was going to harass Grace about her progress, his phone rang. He flipped it open with such vehemence he was surprised it didn't crack in half.

"Will," he said shortly, not bothering to moderate his voice.

"Patrick," the other man said, swamped in obvious confusion. "What the hell is going on? Danny's picture is everywhere. The news said he was a wanted fugitive. Said he kidnapped a CBI agent or something. But that's impossible, obviously."

He sighed, running a hand down his face. "I don't think it is."

Will was silent for a few beats. Then, "You'd better explain this fully, Patrick."

As quickly and concisely as he could, he gave Will the bare facts. He couldn't imagine what the other man's reaction would be. To believe their child was gone, only to find out that he had been resurrected from the grave as a serial killer's accomplice.

However, he knew that if it was _him_, he would take the second option in a heartbeat. Anyone who said differently was never a parent, never looked into eyes that depended on you utterly, never held a tiny hand, never compulsively checked on a sleeping child simply to be reassured that they were still breathing.

It took Will a few minutes to compose himself. "So you're saying that Danny's in league with the same man who killed Ang and Charlotte. And now he's got your partner. This sounds...just ridiculous, like something out of a bad movie."

"I know," he said, very seriously. "But I'm positive it's all true."

Will swore quietly. "Patrick, you have to know that Liv and I, we really believed he was dead. I mean, there was a body to bury. We matched dental records. The whole nine yards."

"I'm sure you did," he replied. "The ruse wouldn't work otherwise." He had pulled a few long cons himself, and he knew that if anyone suspected him, the game would be over.

"Look, Will," he went on, realizing that he was about to come off as an insensitive asshole, "I know this is bizarre and very, very difficult, but I need your help."

"Anything I can do," the older man said immediately.

Jane thought briefly about what he was asking. "Did Danny have any hiding spots around Sacramento that you know of? Safe houses? Any place he was connected to at all?"

There was a lengthy pause in which he considered praying, but then he decided he refused to acknowledge the existence of a God that might take Lisbon away from him.

"I think Danny had a spot in the southeast corner of the city somewhere. Maybe even in Churchill Downs. But it's been years since I knew about the place. It might be gone by now." Despite everything, he could hear the reluctance in Will's words, and hew knew it felt like a betrayal.

"Thank you," he said with genuine sincerity. "And Will? I promise that if I can get Danny out of this alive, I will."

He owed his former in-laws at least that much. He had no idea if he _would_ be able to save Danny's life, too. At the moment, he didn't even particularly care if he did.

All that mattered was getting Lisbon back, safe and sound.

"The woman he took," Will said unexpectedly. "Your partner, right?"

"Yes," Jane replied slowly, wondering where this was going.

"Was she the woman we were talking about this morning?"

"Yes," he said simply. "She was."

"Then I hope you find her." The line went dead, and he took a moment to cradle his head in his hands. After his one second of indulgence, he called for Cho, sticking the phone back in his pocket.

"Focus on southeastern Sacramento," he told the detective. "Danny's parents think he could be there."

Cho didn't question his information, but simply made the call.

Anxious to do something, Jane started sorting through the tips they had been given, paying special attention to those that came from the right geographical area.

A few caught his eye. Three people had reported a white man that fit Danny's description driving an older Honda. It made sense; old Hondas were some of the easiest cars to steal in the country.

Passing the information onto Rigsby, he stared at the map of Sacramento that was hanging on the whiteboard. Lisbon was out there somewhere, and it was his job to find her.

He had waited for the opportunity to be with her for ten years, and now that it was at hand, he wasn't going to lose it, wasn't going to lose the only woman other than Angela that he had ever been in love with.

"We've got something," Cho said from behind him unexpectedly. "Might not be anything, but I'm not willing to let anything slip by."

Turning, Jane read the fierce determination in the other man's eyes. It was good to know that he wasn't the only one who would fight until the end.

"Lead the way," he said.

**XxXxXxXxX**

Lisbon was starting to get decidedly uncomfortable. She had tried to draw her knees up to her chest, but her ribs protested the position emphatically.

She had wedged herself in one corner, head lolling against a wall. On her best days, she wasn't a particularly patient person. This was certainly not one of her better days.

This was definitely some sort of psychological torture, and she was fighting to rise above it.

She heard the approaching footsteps again, and steeled herself. She had no idea what Danny was expecting her reaction to be, but she wasn't going to let him see how afraid she was.

The light was less blinding when the door was opened, so she surmised it was much later in the day. Of course, she had lost a great deal of her sense of time. Being locked in a dark, windowless room had that effect, so for all she knew it could have been three days in the future.

Danny entered just far enough to grab her bound wrists and pull her up. She winced at the sudden, sharp movement.

"Have a good rest?" he asked, face very close to hers.

"Sure," she said, "I slept very well." She raised her chin a fraction. "Are you going to tell me why I'm here yet?"

His cold, calculating smile was back. "That would take all day, I'm afraid. It's a very long story."

"You could start at the beginning," she suggested, trying to buy herself time.

Danny tugged her forward, and she stumbled a bit. "And what a beginning it was," he said with relish. They walked, and she was displeased to note that she still wasn't really in any shape for running. "I'm sure you know by now what led to the deaths of my sister and niece."

She nodded.

"My master always knew it was me. He was really starting to perfect his art then, but something like that couldn't be ignored. I think that he would have preferred to kill me, but I was a very hard man to find. And then our beloved Patrick had to get involved. Imagine the surprise Red John received when he discovered the phony psychic investigating him was married to my sister." His tone worried her - it was full of suppressed glee and elation, like retelling these horrific events made him unbearably happy.

The late afternoon sun glinted briefly off the weapon in his hand, flashing across the room and windows.

"Patrick's transgressions were just a convenient reason to take revenge for my careless actions." To hear it out loud was still disquieting. It went against everything she had thought, every reason for Jane's behavior for the past ten years.

"As I'm certain you've figured out," Danny went on, "Red John keeps fairly close tabs on all of you. When I reappeared in Sacramento a few years ago, he knew about it. And he found me." His smile, worrisome so far, became downright deranged. "He took pity on me, becoming my master. He taught me how to stop being a victim. And he showed me what really mattered."

"And what was that?" she couldn't help asking. "Death? Murdering innocent people? Bringing misery to their families?"

Danny didn't seem offended by her outburst. Instead, his expression was pitying. "Oh, if you could only see the big picture. I hope," he continued, as they turned a corned, "that perhaps by the end of our time together, you'll begin to understand."

A tendril of fear wrapped around her heart. Although she didn't know for certain, she had a suspicion that this would end with her death, if Danny had his way.

Suddenly, there was a sharp crack of glass, and a bullet whizzed over their heads. Relying on reflexes that had been honed by a hundred shoot outs, she ducked, spinning, and ran as fast as her legs could take her.

Danny's shout followed her, as did his footsteps, but she pushed her battered body forward. _Mind over matter_, she repeated. _Mind over matter._

The building they were in was almost maze-like in its construction, full of multiple twists and turns.

She heard another shot fly through the air.

She had no idea who was shooting, but she supposed if they were shooting_ at_ Danny, they couldn't be all bad. Maybe.

He was gaining on her; she could hear his heavy breathing now, and she screamed at her muscles to move faster than they already were. Her bound hands made moving awkward, but the pain in her ribs made it excruciating.

From up ahead, she heard movement, and she concentrated on reaching it with everything she had.

A hand gripped her hair ruthlessly from behind, and she screamed, falling backwards. Her head hit the concrete floor with a dull thud, and she blacked out for a second.

When her vision refocused, Danny was kneeling over her, familiar curved blade held in his hands. He looked sweaty, discomposed, but very sure of himself.

"This was not how this was supposed to happen," he told her, breathing heavily. "But it'll work, I guess."

She tried to fight him off, but his knees were pinning her down, his weight crushing her chest. His hand swung high, and she closed her eyes.

Two shots rang out, and the body on top of hers went suddenly lax. There was shouting, but she couldn't make out the words. Eyes still wrenched shut, she felt Danny hauled off of her.

The next instant, she heard Jane's voice, low and concerned. "Are you alright?" he demanded, carefully pulling her into a sitting position.

She couldn't find her voice, though. Absently, she realized she was shaking violently. She cautiously opened her eyes just in time to see Cho cutting through the binding around her wrists.

Hands finally free, she did what she had wanted to do since she had been taken.

She threw herself at Jane, ignoring her protesting muscles, the rawness of her wrists, burying her face in his neck.

His arms went around her, and she could feel his residual terror in his embrace.

"It's okay," he whispered. "You're alright," he said over and over. "I've got you."

It was the last point that she clung to, and she pressed herself closer to him.

He was right - she was okay.

And he had her.

It was over.


	15. Chapter 15

**AN**: Sorry – I'm going to have to offer another blanket thank you for all the reviews. I promise to be better, probably after this story is over. There's just an epilogue remaining at this point, so it will be soon. Oh, and this chapter might be a touch on the M side.

I also think this feels a little OOC, but I'm afraid that's the only thing I can come up with at the moment! Without oversharing here, morning (er, all day) sickness does not lend itself to writing emotional stories. That's also the reason why the last chapter and this one feel a bit rushed, at least in my opinion. Very simply, I need to wrap this story up because I really don't have the energy to devote to it.

However, rest assured, I'm going to give them their happy ending, even if it kills me!

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Chapter Fifteen**

She hadn't stopped clinging to him since he'd pulled a definitely dead Danny Ruskin off of her prone body. In fact, she hadn't uttered a word.

Instead, she'd hurled herself at him, grip fiercely tight, fingers digging into his back. He held her back as tight as he dared, not knowing what her injuries were, if he would hurt her.

Eventually, he carefully sat back, bringing her with him. He was trying to fight the lingering fear that was surrounding him - this behavior wasn't like Lisbon. His mind offered all sorts of scenarios that would account for what was happening, each more unpleasant than the last.

He slowly pulled back far enough so that he could tilt her chin up. She resisted at first, but he was insistent.

Emerald eyes looked at him, wide and fragile and relieved, and he touched her cheek. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head. "I just want to go home."

He frowned. "I think you should probably be checked out. Your ribs, at least, took a beating, I know."

He had seen her go down, Danny's hand pulling on her dark hair, had heard the thud of flesh colliding with unforgiving cement. Had felt her pain all the way in his heart.

Her eyes looked bruised now, and he unconsciously tightened his hold on her. "Let the paramedics do a once over," he urged. "If they say you're alright, I'll take you home, I promise."

With a little maneuvering, he stood, pulling her up, too. The grimace on her face told him she was in serious pain.

He put a bracing arm around her waist, and turned them around, back towards the exit and the paramedics he knew had been called.

Grace met his gaze as they passed, and he saw sympathy and a little surprise. Lisbon wrapped around him was not something she had expected to really see, he knew. He imagined Rigsby was probably even more shocked.

The EMTs asked her a series of questions, and he listened intently to all of her answers, desperate to discover what really happened in that warehouse. She passed her concussion test, for which he was grateful.

Outwardly, there was nothing else visibly wrong with her. She admitted that her ribs were causing her pain, but she said they felt no worse than they did when she first injured them.

Looking a little skeptical, the paramedics released her, and she gravitated to him. To his surprise, she leaned her forehead against his shoulder, and he reached for both of her hands.

"Take me home, please," she whispered again.

He pressed his lips against her hair. "Alright," he murmured back. "Let me go find Cho. He's in charge of the investigation."

He walked her to the Citroen, making sure she was settled, before going back into the warehouse. The entire way, he compulsively looked over his shoulder, checking that Lisbon was where he left her.

By the time he found Cho, he was practically jogging.

"I'm taking Lisbon back to her place," he said by way of greeting. "She got the all-clear from the paramedics."

Cho looked as serious as he ever did. "Is she okay? Really okay?"

He shrugged. "I think she's as shaken up as I've ever seen her." That was true - Lisbon reaching out for comfort was not something he saw everyday. Hell, he was more likely to turn to her for reassurance, and that was definitely saying something.

Glancing around the warehouse, Cho sighed. "Take care of her."

"I will," he promised. "I still don't actually know what happened, but I'll see what I can find out."

The other man nodded. "Will do. Check in sometime in the morning."

He didn't relax until he was back in the car with Lisbon. Without speaking, he reached for her hand as he drove, lacing their fingers together.

Her grip on his hand was like steel.

The inside of her apartment felt strangely unreal. It had been just over twelve hours since he had left there, but it seemed like a lifetime had passed.

Lisbon shrugged out of her blazer as soon as the door closed behind her. Her shoes and belt were next.

Slowly she climbed the stairs, and he followed in her wake. After a brief stop in the bathroom to swallow some ibuprofen, she pushed the door of her room open.

He lounged against the frame, eyes never leaving her.

Abruptly, she sighed, shook her head slightly, and turned back to him.

From where he stood, he could see her pulse thundering in the base of her throat. He started to ask what the matter was, but before he could get the words out, she had taken his face in her hands and pressed her lips to his.

There was desperation in her kiss, a frantic energy, and he caught her by the elbows. She pushed her tongue into his mouth, and he groaned involuntarily.

Her hands slid from his shoulders, down his chest, to his stomach.

"What are you doing?" he breathed, lips brushing hers as he spoke. It was not lost on him that he was the one asking the questions now.

She hooked her thumbs in his belt loops. "The only thing I could think of was how I hoped I wouldn't regret stopping you."

He felt his breath catch as he looked down into her face, reading her intent very clearly. His throat went dry. "You're injured," he reminded her, voice scratchy.

"I don't care," she replied, chin set stubbornly. "For a few hours today, I thought I was going to die without knowing what this would be like. I'm not waiting any longer."

One of her hands slid inward, and his head fell back against the wall. Whatever argument he would have made disintegrated as she softly squeezed.

There was nothing left to do but give in.

He found her mouth again, parting her lips, her hand still pressed against him.

When she started unbuttoning his shirt, fingers trailing across the newly exposed skin, he shivered, taking her hips in his hands.

He carefully walked her backwards until the edge of the bed stopped their progress. Slowly, but inexorably, he lowered her down, then propped himself up above her.

With quick, sure motions, he tugged her shirt off, tracing her collarbone with the tip of one finger.

The bruising on her ribs was evident, and he scattered feather-light kisses over the angry blue and purple spots.

Impatiently, she pulled him up again, roughly shoving his jacket down his arms, nearly popping the buttons off his shirt and vest as she removed them.

The first touch of skin to skin was indescribable. Warmth and love and desire all mixed together. His hands found her belt, slid her jeans down her legs.

He took a detour on the way back to her mouth, just long enough for her to wind her fingers into the sheets, breath coming in labored pants.

But the first time, at least, he needed to know what it felt like when she convulsed around him. There would be plenty of time for other things later.

The rest of his clothes fell away, mixing with her discarded garments on the floor, and she opened her arms to him.

He pushed forward, closing his eyes as her warmth washed over him. Her hands slid down his flanks, urging him on, and he kissed her again, wanting to be even closer.

Still careful, mindful of what she had been through that day, he shifted his hips, and she wrapped her legs around him.

The change in angle was almost his undoing, but he held on, breathing harshly, until her nails dug into his back and she cried out his name. He thrust through her climax, finding his own, then collapsed, just aware enough to not rest all of his weight on her.

She snuggled into him, heart still pounding, and he softly touched all the bare skin he could reach.

A part of him wondered if this had been the right thing to do, given all they had been through, but the majority of him was unspeakably glad that they had. She was right - he didn't want to just imagine this anymore. And it was certainly better than any of the myriad of fantasies he had come up with in the past long, lonely years. She was really here, curled around him, body trembling occasionally with aftershocks.

Hell, if he would've had it his way, they would have already done this.

A little clumsily, they crawled beneath the covers, exhaustion making both their eyes heavy. He kissed the curve of her pale shoulder softly, smiling when she burrowed further into him.

They drifted off that way, and when he woke, it was dark.

He felt pleasantly warm and sleepy still, the craziness of the past few days fading away in the shadow of what had happened here earlier.

Lisbon stretched against him, the percale sheets rustling as she moved, and he knew that this was worth everything.

Her hand rested against his heart, and he absently played with her fingers. "Tell me what happened," he finally murmured, loath to break the spell they were under, but needing to know nonetheless.

She sighed deeply, then begin to go into details about everything that had occurred since the last time she had walked out her apartment door.

He listened with mounting horror as she spoke about Danny, about what had led him to the position of apprentice.

"Red John made him a victim," he whispered. "It wasn't intentional this time, like it was with Lorelei, but still, he did like to play the role of God, didn't he? Giving and taking away."

"I thought the same thing," she replied. "I wonder how many others had to lose loved ones before they became his disciples."

There was a lull in their conversation while they both contemplated the implications of that.

"How did you find me?" Lisbon asked, arm around his waist.

"Long story," he said. "Angela's parents pointed me in the right direction, and your favorite thing in the world, good old-fashioned police work took us the rest of the way."

In truth, they had almost been too late, but he had no inclination to tell her that. They had narrowed the area down, yes, but it was a freak chance that took him outside the warehouse she was being held at. It looked like every other building, but from the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of light off of metal.

Taking the biggest risk of his life, he had called the team over, telling them that this was where Lisbon was. It had paid off, however, so he pushed his misgivings away.

He ran a hand through her hair. "Did Danny tell you why it was so important that you died?" The words chilled him, but there were still some questions that needed to be answered.

She shook her head. "He didn't quite get around to it. He just told me that it would become clear. I wonder if we'll ever know the rationale behind any of Red John's victims, how he managed to convince people so thoroughly."

It was his turn to sigh. "Probably not," he admitted. "I guess it doesn't really matter now, but it's one more mystery that won't be solved."

"I'm sure in the future some crazy shrink will look over all the case files and come up with some elaborate theory." Lisbon didn't sound thrilled at the prospect. "And it will probably be all wrong, anyway."

They were silent again for a few minutes, but it was far from awkward. It was…peaceful, he decided.

They showered together later, the hot water unbelievably soothing.

He made love to her again after that, slowly this time, without the desperation that had colored their earlier experience. More than once, he wondered how he had gone almost ten years without doing this.

It was as though he had felt cold and worthless for the better part of a decade, and Lisbon had taken it all away in one night.

He listened to her heart beating for what seemed like an eternity afterwards, the steady tick assuring him that she was still alright, that he had been in time, that she was still his.

"Did Danny hurt you?" he finally worked up the courage to ask.

She heard the undercurrents in his voice. "What do you mean?"

He sucked in a deep breath. "You just seemed very…emotional at the scene today. I realize you're not kidnapped every day, but I just didn't know if…" He trailed off, realizing how ridiculous this was all starting to sound.

Lisbon shifted so that they were almost nose to nose. "Jane, I thought I was going to die for a few seconds this afternoon." Her eyes were deep, serious. "I'm not scared of death, don't mistake my meaning here, but I was just so scared I was going to miss out on this." She gestured to the two of them, still wrapped up in her sheets.

"And then you were the first person I saw, and I just kept thinking about how I had been given another chance. People don't get those very often, you know." Smiling a touch, she tapped him once on the nose.

"I know," he whispered back. God, did he ever.

He had thought his life was over when he lost Angela and Charlotte, had thought that there was nothing left to live for.

It was almost funny – it took more courage to admit that he was ready to live for Lisbon than it did to admit he was willing to die for her.

But that's what he was going to do. After today, he wasn't going to let any more time pass, wondering if he could actually get on with his life. He could fight through the bad days, the times where smiling got hard, but he was going to do it all knowing that he could come home to Lisbon.

"I love you," he breathed, and it seemed like the most important thing in the world to tell her.

Her smile was stunning. She leaned forward and kissed him lightly. "Love you, too."

Gently, he nudged her on to her back again. "Prove it," he murmured, the tone of his voice entirely different now – lower, throatier.

And, eyes gleaming, she did.


	16. Epilogue

**AN**: Two chapters in one day! Wow. Mark it down, folks, because it won't happen again.

As I'm sure you've realized, this is the end of our story. Thank you all so much for your reviews and your supports. They mean the absolute world to me, and I could write without all of you!

Thanks again for reading this, and hopefully I'll be back soon!

**Rebuilding the Sun**

**Epilogue**

They attended two funerals the next week.

The first one was his father's. Lisbon had handled most of the minor details, like the flower arrangements, and he was unspeakably grateful for it. The wounds were still raw, more than he had expected them to be, and Lisbon took some of the burden away from him.

The only people at the service were the members of the CBI. The team had turned up in a show of support for him, furthering Lisbon's insistence that they really were family. Minelli unexpectedly put in an appearance, and Jane was touched.

He stood, dry-eyed, by Lisbon throughout the duration, their fingers laced together. He figured he was mourning the father he had once known, and not the man he had become.

Alex was buried not far from Angela and Charlotte. There were bouquets of pink flowers on both of those graves. He still wasn't sure what compelled him to make the gesture, but he knew Lisbon thought it was the right thing to do.

He didn't know if it made him feel better or not, the flowers, but it was done.

After the casket had been lowered into the freshly dug earth, they had gone to O'Malley's bar, and proceeded to down several rounds.

_Jane found that he very much appreciated the sense of camaraderie, of belonging, that he felt. He wasn't used to it, but he wanted_ to be.

After people had drifted off, he went home with Lisbon. Truth be told, her apartment was already more of a home to him than anywhere else had been in the past ten years.

They had never discussed their future explicitly, but he had no plans to sleep anywhere other than her bed, ever again.

Well, perhaps he could make an exception for the couch in the bullpen. He had developed a bit of a relationship with it, and, after all, he had a reputation to uphold.

He was less certain about their second funeral, especially about Lisbon's presence there.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he told her, over and over again.

"I _know_," she replied every time.

"He_ did_ try to kill you, or have you forgotten that?" Frankly, he thought she was being ridiculous.

"I remember, thank you," she deadpanned.

What motivation she had to accompany him to Danny Ruskin's second funeral was beyond him. Perhaps she thought he needed the moral support. It was still a bad idea.

Regardless, she stood by him at another graveside, the grip on his hand very tight. He was more concerned about her reaction than what was actually going on, and he measured her pulse rate frequently.

At the conclusion, Will and Olivia had come up to him, and he knew it was there way of saying that they didn't blame him for what had happened. He still hadn't told them the truth - there were some secrets that should go to the grave, and this one would.

Almost shyly, he introduced them to Lisbon. Tentatively, she smiled, looking very nervous.

Olivia hugged her, and he felt his throat tighten for an instant, and he was suddenly very glad indeed that Lisbon had come with him.

They stopped for lunch at a place on the coast, the afternoon sunlight warming them as they sat out on the deck overlooking the ocean.

He felt peaceful, at ease. It was a gorgeous day, despite the event they had just come from, he had the woman he loved sitting across from him, and they were going home.

When the nightmare surrounding Danny had died down, he had been worried that the damned haze that swept through his mind unexpectedly would return. To his relief, it seemed to have evaporated under the blinding rays of Lisbon's love, as hokey as it sounded.

He sometimes forgot how powerful of a thing love was.

Lisbon gently poked him. "You look very serious. What's on your mind?"

"Nothing important," he lied, smiling now. He wanted to see her carefree and happy in the sunshine, not thinking his deep thoughts.

"You sure?" she asked.

He grabbed her hand, raised her knuckles to his lips. "Positive."

They spent the rest of the day holed up in her apartment, watching old movies while she sprawled across him on the couch.

It was like they were existing in a perfect bubble, and he was scared that going back to work full-time would ruin the environment they had created. He supposed he just had to have faith.

He made dinner, laughing as he searched through her cupboards for cooking supplies. He took the price stickers off of several utensils. It was as if she had bought all the proper implements, not because she intended to use them, but simply because she thought she should have them.

"Your poor kitchen," he said. "I'm not sure how it ever got along without me. It told me I was the best thing that had ever happened to it."

She swatted him with a dish towel, rolling her eyes. "Oh, really? What else did it tell you?"

He felt more than a little nervous when he spoke again. "It said it wants me to move in."

There were a few beats of surprised silence. Then her arms came around him from behind. "Do you want to?" she asked quietly.

His hands slid over hers. "Yes," he replied, just as softly.

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his jaw. "Then welcome home."

For a moment, he thought his heart would burst. Lisbon squeezed him lightly, and he thought she might understand what this meant to him.

When Red John had fallen, he had never imagined that it would have taken him this long to be where he was. Things had certainly not gone as expected, but that didn't mean they had been all wrong.

And, in the end, he figured he had ended up where he was supposed to be.

Some of the guilt had fallen away, the endless grief.

He could be whole again, _would_ be whole again.

With one swift motion, he pulled Lisbon into his arms properly. Her heart was shining in her eyes, and he knew that she had been waiting for this moment almost as long as he had.

The knowledge that they were ready to move forward.

Together.


End file.
